SLOWING: On Interviews

What I've learned from interviews and why they're included in my book

I knew my first nonfiction book would highlight other voices.

I began my career over a decade ago by starting an interview-based Tumblr, which later became a boutique content company. Throughout its lifespan, the business gave me the opportunity to profile makers working in various disciplines. I learned to develop a consistent set of questions that helped establish a voice and tone for the “brand” but, more importantly, reflected my curiosities about my interviewees’ passions. By the time I shifted my focus away from that project and toward writing, I had a better grip on my interview style. I understood to treat questions with reverence regardless of the context. (For the purposes of this process diary, I’m focusing on the professional.)

I hit my stride as an interviewer when I created Slow Stories (the podcast). The funny thing is that I can be incredibly shy. I like to say that I wear my heart on my sleeve and my anxiety on my face, but I’ve tried to never let the latter stop me from going there. The podcast setting reinforced a lack of control that I had previously failed to recognize or was too afraid to invite into the process. In other words, Slow Stories taught me that every interview can take on a life of its own. And that’s okay. So much unfolds before you officially “start” the conversation. Sometimes it’s glorious; other times, it’s heartbreaking. You don’t always know how someone is going to show up. I don’t always know how I’m going to show up.

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While researching for my 2021 BOMB Magazine interview with Lisa Taddeo, I came across a talk she gave about how we ask questions specifically in the context of Three Women. When I asked her what she’s learned about “responsible questioning” regarding her debut novel, Animal, she shared:

“Across both fiction and nonfiction—and hopefully my personal life—I try not to levy judgment. Specifically, with nonfiction and with the women that I wrote about for Three Women, it was important for me to tell their stories unadorned without my own opinion—which I was not personally interested in, and I don't think matters. I really just wanted to be the vessel for their stories … I love getting as honest as possible, but there are places where I think for our characters, ourselves, and the people we meet, we should let them have their private selves. I try not to go into those zones because I think there's enough outside. I think you can get more interesting material from people if you ask them about things that they're willing to talk about—and they'll go into depth about those things—rather than trying to skim the top of the things that you think might be more salient.”

I’ve tried to employ the same level of care that Taddeo spoke about. With Slowing, I was overcome by the generosity my interviewees brought to the table. I don’t want to give too much away about the actual interviews, but I can say with confidence that each conversation stands on its own while connecting to the section that it lives in (again, I’ll be sharing more on this structural detail soon). I had my set of questions, the interviewee’s background, and the book’s overarching themes in mind—but often, I was confronted with fun tangents or unexpected memories. There was talk of mental health journeys, breakups, and career changes. The good and bad. Truly everything in between.

Questions and answers are the bedrock of our lives. We ask for information, meaning, connection. We respond with what we have available to us—whether it’s a long story or a small shrug. To me, the practice of interviewing embodies the adage it’s about the journey, not the destination. I walk away invigorated and sometimes exhausted from an interview, but always more human. Always with the understanding that it’s a privilege to speak with someone openly about their life or work. In many ways, it’s also an act of courage.

With a book like Slowing, it felt imperative to share the page with a range of voices to help capture the nuances of slowness—and time. Within its pages, you’ll meet people like chef and food justice advocate Sophia Roe, who uttered a simple yet striking line about new beginnings that nearly took my breath away; activist and multidisciplinary artist Jezz Chung, who eloquently shared mind-body revelations; artists and siblings Caitlin and Nicholas Barasch, who realized (sometimes in real-time!) what they’ve learned from each other’s respective creative practices; filmmaker Rachel Fleit who candidly reflected on doubts and dreams. The list goes on. You might recognize some of these names or meet them for the first time. In any case, their heartfelt stories add to the heartbeat of this book. I hope you feel the pulse when you hold it in your hands.

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“Rachel Schwartzmann brings a calm, deep, and intentional intelligence to the interviews she does for her [project], Slow Stories. Slowing, an ingeniously interlaced collection of personal essays, interviews, and creative prompts that hit like quiet firecrackers, offers that same steadying feeling. Reading it is the closest I’ve come to experiencing words as focused meditation.” - Brandon Stosuy, co-founder of The Creative Independent, Editor of Sad Happens, and author of Make Time for Creativity, Stay Inspired, and How to Fail Successfully

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For Your Next Chapter

If you enjoyed this slow story, here are a few others that might slow your scroll:

The Creative Independent

Speaking of interviews, I was recently interviewed by the thoughtful

Jess Focht

for The Creative Independent! It’s not live yet, but I’m honored to be joining their incredible roster. (A recent standout for me was Tajja Isen in conversation with Eva Recinos.) Brandon Stosuy—the site’s co-founder and EIC—has also been an incredible supporter of my work (see the very kind Slowing endorsement pictured above). Learn more about Brandon’s story and latest book via my podcast interview, which also features his friend and collaborator, Rose Lazar.

“Miranda July Is Saying the Hard Things” by yours truly

I was thrilled to interview the singular Miranda July for Coveteur about her incredible new novel, All Fours. So much of her work is in conversation with others. As she mentioned during our call: 

“With any luck, you'll get older and older and then die. But I think the fear is that you will be ignored, you won't be loved, you won't be able to work, you will not have enough power to live a happy life, you will be shut out. They're actually pretty substantial things. If you go to the root fear, it all connects to sort of your fears generally: of saying the wrong thing … that you're going to be alone and somehow outside of the fold of fellowship. But I guess as we were saying, the conversation with other women made me think that I won't be [alone]—even if I'm cast out in some sense—I will be with other women, and I can get through anything with that. That actually could be a good life.”

“Weathering // An interview with myself to answer some of the questions I'm unlikely to be asked elsewhere” by Ruth Allen

I unexpectedly discovered

Ruth Allen

’s Substack a couple of months ago and have loved following her dispatches since. I also plan to pick up a copy of her new book, Weathering, when I’m in London next month, based on her incisive “self-interview” about writing, publishing, and more. This story just reinforces how vital it is to ask questions—whether of others or ourselves. (I’m also all about the questions that are unlikely to be asked!) Here is a moment from her interview that I especially loved:

“What you get instead is something close but not quite. And you can choose to be stressed about that, or recognise the necessary and absolute enoughness in this. Perhaps it’s supposed to be this way, you know? Making any sort of work is a maddening process of trying to bring the same vitality of a dream into a living thing, and any creative will know that it’s the not quite getting there that keeps you trying again and again. This is what builds a practice, and a body of work. It is easy to dream perfection, but this shouldn’t be the enemy of a tangible good. A great many ideas glitter in that ethereal space of imagination and it is only through trying to make them material that we realise the limits of our ability, the constraints we face, the limitations of form that make rendering a dream to its exact likeness, impossible. That’s OK. We all find our edges in this way.”