An itch to move on

On Bridge Street in Saratoga, Wyoming, few shopkeepers know the name Annie Proulx.

But they sure know the title of her most famous short story, Brokeback Mountain. “I wish I'd never written it,'' Proulx says at her home about eight kilometres outside town.

Not because of the people of Saratoga, a town she doesn't think much of.

It's all the manuscripts, screenplays and letters sent to her by men who rewrite or serialise her story, adding new characters, endings and even successive generations.

“They think that just because they are men, they understand men better than I do.''

So much of Proulx's hard and fine writing is about place, it is a wonder more people don't try to find her.

After winning the 1994 Pulitzer prize for her novel The Shipping News, set in Newfoundland, Proulx became a fixed star in the literary constellation, winning almost every prize a writer could win.

She has often criticised the literary establishment for knowing nothing about what goes on in America outside its cities.

She hates and generally refuses interviews (especially in her home). But she has agreed to talk — although a polite e-mail from her publicist warns that she “takes a while to warm up to people''. Her ferocity — often cushioned by the phrase “doesn't suffer fools'' — is literary legend.

The house Proulx built in 2004 is large and modern. She bought the land from the Nature Conservancy but now she is ready to move on, at least for the winters. “I like to keep moving,'' she says.

The road to the house, though beautiful, turns to mush for much of the year and Proulx, 73, worries about emergencies.

She lives alone but has four grown children who want her to hold on to the property.

“As far as I know,'' she says, “they've never read a single one of my books. We've never spoken of them. It's not that we don't get along, it's just that we don't talk about my writing.'' She shoots a sideways look that says: “End of discussion.''

Manner of speaking

This look — in combination with Proulx's short, steely grey-brown hair, bright eyes, focused attention, lack of make-up and simple clothing — is enough to make a person think twice before asking a personal question.

“I moved to Wyoming for the long sightlines and the walkability,'' she says, “But I've had enough.''

This could be the recipe for Proulx's fiction. Her new book, Fine Just the Way It Is, is the third in an astringent triptych of Wyoming story collections, joining Close Range (which includes Brokeback Mountain) and Bad Dirt.

The first of these books, Proulx explains, “was a backhand swipe at the mythology of the West — the old beliefs that aren't really true.''

In her fiction, she has shown more interest in men than women because, she says, men in rural communities tend to be the ones who get out and do things. But it's also true that at this point in her life most of her friends are men.

When asked about the interruptions to her career caused by three marriages and three divorces, she shrugs. “You can like them,'' she jokes about men, “but it doesn't mean you have to sample every single one.''

What fascinates Proulx, going back to her days as a history student at the University of Vermont, are cultures in their death throes.

She studied the French Annales School method, which involves looking carefully at documents, receipts, census reports, recipes — any record of daily life.

This is what Proulx does with her fiction, researching everyday lives in a place. She uses this — although not, she says, the actual characters — along with bits of dialogue picked up in bars and restaurants.

Proulx says she doesn't mind that “writing is a solitary pursuit'' and that she likes to be alone.

“The downside of the writing life is that you are a constant observer of other people's lives. I was always the one at parties standing against the wall.''

Scenes from life

Proulx got a late start as a writer. Her first book appeared in 1988, when she was 53. She says it is not really a late start if you “count the lifetime of reading'' she did before she was published.

“You treat characters differently when you know something about how life works — how folks handle disappointments and wounding.''

Proulx lived for 30 years in Vermont, where she wrote for an outdoor magazine called Gray's Journal. As a writer, it was the closest she has ever come to a community.

“There were eight or ten of us,'' she recalls, “including Ted Hoagland and Howard Mosher. The journal was an alternative to the hook-and-bullet press, more in the style of the 1890s field-and-stream pieces you used to see. The pay was always late.''

These days, she complains of having no writing time. “It's a big house,'' she says, eyeing dust on a photograph that has been bothering her for the last hour or so.

“It's hard to keep clean. I read with stupefaction of men who rise every morning and write until 2.''

Towards the end of the writing process, Proulx will often work 16 hours a day. “I love shaping things, pruning out the unnecessary, shaping unshapely sentences.

"After things are published I never read them again. I never, ever read reviews.''

Proulx believes the computer is “the enemy of careful writing''. She prefers to write by hand, using the computer as “a joinery device''.

“There's something about the rhythm of writing on the page with a pen,'' she says, “that is richly fulfilling — like drawing a picture.''