This was going to be difficult.
Interviews were always difficult, of course, in the sense that they were work; if one was doing them properly, they were much more mentally taxing (at least on her end) than simple conversations. It was going to be even more difficult because she hadn't prepared for it, because it had never occurred to her that she would be in this situation unless she had gone very much out of the way to put herself in this situation. Finally, it was going to be difficult just by virtue of the fact that it was him. They might have only know each other's faces for a few weeks, but she'd known him for over a year, and she was already feeling less objective about this than she would have liked. He was saying he would make more tea, and she suspected this had very little to do with tea itself and much more to do with a desire to keep himself busy for a few minutes while she got ready. He didn't want to look at her, or talk to her, or think about her for a few minutes — he was ashamed, and they hadn't even gotten into it yet. She felt a well of sympathy and she wanted to say it's alright, it's alright, but she pushed it down, because she knew if it had been anyone other than him she would have watched him move to the kitchen and merely thought how fascinating.
Juliana retrieved her notebook. She prepared the area around her as best she could, in this unfamiliar setting. She put out her quill and ink, her cup of tea, a list of notes and potential questions she'd jotted down while working on the article earlier that week. She laid out the top of the page in her notes the same way she always had in the past for interviews, hoping that the ritual would invoke some of the objectivity she currently felt was missing. She wrote down, as far as she could remember, how they'd gotten to this point. Announced he would put on a kettle before starting, she wrote. Just the facts, in the first iteration of her notes. The sensemaking, to avoid having to sit beneath the weight of this subject, would come later.
When he'd returned, she offered him a very small smile.
"I have a process for this," she began. "It might be similar to what you do when you interview, or maybe not. I'll be taking a lot of notes. Just about what you say, and quotations, that sort of thing, not about my opinions or what I think it means. I'll ask questions, and you can say as much or as little as you like in response. If you don't want to answer a question at all, that's alright, too. Just tell me and we'll move along. And if you want to stop to take a break..." she drifted off for a moment, unsure exactly how to say this. "I recognize this may be difficult to speak about. So just... tell me what you need, as we're going through." She paused, going over a brief mental checklist to ensure she'd said all of the important bits before beginning. When she was satisfied that she hadn't missed something, she offered a small, quick smile again. "Do you want to start, or do you want me to ask a question?"
Interviews were always difficult, of course, in the sense that they were work; if one was doing them properly, they were much more mentally taxing (at least on her end) than simple conversations. It was going to be even more difficult because she hadn't prepared for it, because it had never occurred to her that she would be in this situation unless she had gone very much out of the way to put herself in this situation. Finally, it was going to be difficult just by virtue of the fact that it was him. They might have only know each other's faces for a few weeks, but she'd known him for over a year, and she was already feeling less objective about this than she would have liked. He was saying he would make more tea, and she suspected this had very little to do with tea itself and much more to do with a desire to keep himself busy for a few minutes while she got ready. He didn't want to look at her, or talk to her, or think about her for a few minutes — he was ashamed, and they hadn't even gotten into it yet. She felt a well of sympathy and she wanted to say it's alright, it's alright, but she pushed it down, because she knew if it had been anyone other than him she would have watched him move to the kitchen and merely thought how fascinating.
Juliana retrieved her notebook. She prepared the area around her as best she could, in this unfamiliar setting. She put out her quill and ink, her cup of tea, a list of notes and potential questions she'd jotted down while working on the article earlier that week. She laid out the top of the page in her notes the same way she always had in the past for interviews, hoping that the ritual would invoke some of the objectivity she currently felt was missing. She wrote down, as far as she could remember, how they'd gotten to this point. Announced he would put on a kettle before starting, she wrote. Just the facts, in the first iteration of her notes. The sensemaking, to avoid having to sit beneath the weight of this subject, would come later.
When he'd returned, she offered him a very small smile.
"I have a process for this," she began. "It might be similar to what you do when you interview, or maybe not. I'll be taking a lot of notes. Just about what you say, and quotations, that sort of thing, not about my opinions or what I think it means. I'll ask questions, and you can say as much or as little as you like in response. If you don't want to answer a question at all, that's alright, too. Just tell me and we'll move along. And if you want to stop to take a break..." she drifted off for a moment, unsure exactly how to say this. "I recognize this may be difficult to speak about. So just... tell me what you need, as we're going through." She paused, going over a brief mental checklist to ensure she'd said all of the important bits before beginning. When she was satisfied that she hadn't missed something, she offered a small, quick smile again. "Do you want to start, or do you want me to ask a question?"
Prof. Marlowe Forfang
Jules