New Jersey native Vincent Czyz is an author whose works inspire readers with mythological and religious elements. Best known for his short story collection “Adrift in a Vanishing City”, he has also penned two novels and many essays. His works have won him the William Faulkner-William Wisdom Prize for Short Fiction (1994), two fellowships and a 2026 prose finalist award from the NJ Council for the Arts, the Truman Capote Fellowship at Rutgers University (2011) and the Eric Hoffer Award for Best in Small Press (2016). His most recent collection of short stories, “Old Man Evil & Other Stories”, features an eclectic mix of 12 tales with an assortment of colorful characters brought vividly to life through the printed word.
What was it like growing up in New Jersey when you did? How do you think your early years helped shape who you are today?
My two brothers and I were born in Orange, but we moved to East Orange in 1967, just before I turned 4. Because our sister was wasn’t born until 1978, the four of us didn’t grow up together. I have a single memory of the Newark riots in the summer of ’67: sometime during the night, my father came into my room, lifted me out of bed, and took me to a back bedroom. My bedroom faced the street, and he was afraid I might be exposed to gunfire (shots were audible from our house). Twenty-six people were killed in the riots, so this was a time of racial tension in a place where violence wasn’t uncommon.
The three of us—I’m the middle child—went to Columbian School, which was upwards of 90% black. Most of the time we were treated like the other kids, but now and again someone would pick a fight with us because we were white. Whatever your color, East Orange was a hard place to grow up. Fights were such a part of life at our grammar school there was even a code: “Fight your own battles.” This meant that if two kids of the same age were fighting, no one, whether friend or relative, was allowed to “jump in.” I heard this rule voiced and obeyed without question numerous times. Once there was a clear winner, the fight was over, but no one would interfere until then.
When I was 9 we moved to Wanaque, New Jersey, a suburb surrounded by wooded hills. It was nothing like East Orange. There wasn’t a single black student in our new grammar school, which was probably a quarter the size of Columbian. We hated Wanaque. We didn’t like the way the kids talked, dressed, or what they talked about (hunting and fishing, mostly). We missed our friends and wanted to go back to East Orange. Being the new kids in town, the three of us fought a lot the first year or two. Despite our complaints, we stayed in Wanaque, made new friends, and eventually got used to it. I passed the written and practical tests for a hunting license and even went out a few times armed with a bow or a shotgun—because that’s what every 16-year-old boy in Wanaque did—but I didn’t have the heart to kill anything. I preferred hiking the wooded hills or fishing in one of the nearby ponds or lakes, a pastime I enjoyed until I started feeling sorry for the fish.
Getting a good dose of the urban and semi-rural, plus the camping trips with my brothers and father, gave me a deep appreciation for nature without a negative attitude toward the city. In fact, I have such affinities for both I’ve always been pulled between the two: Do I want to enjoy clean air and quiet mornings, the slowed-down pace and relaxed rural rhythms, or do I want the nightlife of the city, the lively pace, the variety of restaurants, shops, cafés, and the people who frequent them? For a while I seriously contemplated moving to Frontenac, a small town in Kansas that features prominently in my fiction. I wanted, as I wrote in my journal, to have time “to shine my own shoes; clean, paint, fix my own house; brush down the horses; work on my car or bicycle—all of which keeps me grounded, close to existence—that is to say, less distanced by Technology.”
But I never learned to disentangle my DNA from the capitalist-fast-food-hurry-up-New York City virus that infected it. My wife, Neslihan, and I currently live in Jersey City, just across the river from Manhattan, and while I’d like to move somewhere a little quieter and safer, our jobs keep us here. While my upbringing made me more comfortable with violence than I should’ve been, it also familiarized me with black culture. My brothers and I even sang “Aw, Beep Beep,” a Black Power song one of the older kids taught us. When we moved to Wanaque, we went to Paterson six days a week, where we trained as amateur boxers. Paterson was even rougher and more urban than East Orange, so we stayed in contact with our city roots.
What was it like growing up with your brother Bobby? Did his outlook influence you much?
For those who may not know, Bobby eventually won two world titles as a professional fighter. I often get asked about being “in his shadow,” but that wasn’t much of an issue for me because I gave up boxing when I was 14 and switched to wrestling, so we weren’t competing. I went on to pursue writing, still more different from his career path. Occasionally, a local newspaper would write an article on “the fighter and the writer.” Since he was on his way to being famous and I was working in near-total obscurity, I felt lucky they bothered to notice me.
That said, I very much enjoyed having an older brother, especially one like Bobby, who was outgoing and socially adept. I was a little shy, a little introverted, and had a tendency to spend too much time alone in my room. I was a bookworm from about the age of 10 and in many ways preferred books to reality (the way kids today prefer a screen of one sort or another to reality). Bobby forced me to get out of my room and spend more time with friends.
Also, I spent a lot of time in my head and sometimes blundered around in the real world, struggling with simple practicalities, whereas Bobby was at home in the world and, like my younger brother, had a way with motorcycles, cars, and the mechanical. Bobby got me to be more self-reliant and to take more of an interest in the nuts and bolts of things. I often followed his lead in things like music and clothes too, in learning how to act and how not to act. I’m grateful I wasn’t born first because I don’t think I’d have been a good older brother and I don’t think I’d be as sociable or as confident as I am now if it weren’t for Bobby. Geese famously fly in a V formation—the strongest flier among them breaks the wind for the weaker birds. Bobby was like that lead bird for me.
When did you first develop your love of storytelling and writing? Who were some of your earliest influences?
I developed a real love for reading by about fourth grade, which is when I discovered Greek mythology. I became smitten and this led me to read more. In sixth grade I tried to write a nonfiction book about Jupiter—I loved astronomy—so I had a real interest in writing by this time, but not so much in storytelling.
Then I read The Lord of the Rings. Middle Earth virtually replaced the real world, and I started writing a Tolkien-inspired fantasy novel. I filled three, 300-page, spiral-bound notebooks—carefully printing in pencil—with adventures set on the fabled continent of Atlantis. I even drew a detailed map. By senior year in high school, I was typing up a third draft and had finished 100 or so single-spaced pages when I got hooked on science fiction, went off to Rutgers, and lost interest in magic, chimerical races, and wars waged with medieval technology. I wrote a couple of SF stories and started a retelling of Heart of Darkness, which I’d read in high school, set in another solar system.
My two SF short stories were interesting experiments (I didn’t get very far with the novel), but by my sophomore year at Rutgers, I developed a taste for literary fiction and John Updike became a literary idol. I loved what he was able to call up within me through words. I loved the beauty of his sentences and their intimate detail. Samuel R. Delany became another favorite for similar reasons—he wrote about a fictional city so believably I sometimes felt I knew it better than the real cities I’d been in. (Much of what is involved is now called “world-building,” something Tolkien also excelled in.) William H. Gass and Paul West also became big influences. While both wrote stunningly lyrical prose and there’s a lot of brilliant exposition, they were less interested in setting a scene than in making sense of past events and actions. Delany excelled the moment-by-moment unfolding of a scene. I should also mention Millo Farnetti, whom I met in Frontenac. He’s not well-known as a writer, but he taught me a great deal about discarding the conventional sentence, compressing my writing, and establishing a rhythm—a practice notable among the Beats.
What would you say is your favorite story of all?
It’s hard to choose, but I think it’s probably “The Northwest Passage,” one of the stories in “Adrift in a Vanishing City.” I don’t know that’s it’s the best—“best” judgments always make me uncomfortable because there are so many factors to consider and because different readers look for different things in fiction—but that’s probably the one that most resonates with me. It has a pervasive nostalgia and melancholy to it but isn’t unrelentingly bleak. It also brings together most of the characters in the collection.
That said, “Old Man Evil,” the namesake in the collection, is more of a story and is completely self-contained. “The Northwest Passage” loses some of its luster when taken out the cycle of stories it belongs to. Certain connections can’t be made reading it as a stand-alone story,and the characters aren’t fully established.
“Old Man Evil” revolves around Vance, a thirtysomething with amnesia who’s fled a home in suburban New Jersey and a job in Jersey City and winds up in a shanty town in the hinterlands of New Mexico. He vacillates between these two poles, mirroring the tension I’ve always felt between the urban and the rural. The story questions the nature of evil—was the evil of Sodom and Gomorrah the practices of its denizens or God’s solution?—but there’s nothing extrinsic to the story. That is, there’s no narratorial philosophizing or digressing. One of thethings I like about “Old Man Evil” is that it came from a deep place. This is one of those fictions in which I couldn’t effectively communicate what I wanted to in expository prose; I needed to do it through the action of the story, myth, history, image, symbolism, dream. The dream sequence in the story, in fact, is based on an actual dream of mine that happened to fit in with what I was writing.
What was it like living in Turkey? What do you miss most about your time there?
At first it was frustrating not to be able to speak to anyone, not to understand what anyone was saying. The smallest interactions could be embarrassing. Once, for example, the cashier in a grocery store said something I didn’t understand. I looked at the numerals on the cash register and then at the bill I was holding out; it would more than cover the total, but she repeated, “Bozuk varmi?” I had no idea what she was saying. She got exasperated, disappeared for a few minutes, and came back with more cash for her drawer. I later learned she’d asked me a simple question—“Do you have change?”—but I’d stood there uncomprehending and feeling fantastically stupid.
After spending a couple of years in Istanbul and learning some of the language, I felt more comfortable. I also became enchanted by various aspects of Turkish culture—the music, the sprawling history, the art, the Mediterranean lifestyle. And there are parts of Istanbul where you’re surrounded by architecture that has survived, perfectly intact, for centuries. Even the so-called New Mosque is 363 years old. At night, especially when the moon rises over the city, you feel transported to another time, another world.
Beyond Istanbul there are mountains, deserts, miles and miles of beautiful coast, and astonishing ruins,the remains of upwards of 40 distinct cultures, including Ephesus, probably the world’s second-best-preserved ancient city after Pompeii (this is where Paul addressed the Ephesians). Once, while Neslihan and I were exploring Turkey’s southwest coast, we came upon the stone remnants of an ancient Greek town. It was beautifully preserved in the midst of dense forest, and there was no one else there, not even a guard or a ticket-seller. We wandered the ruins freely, marveling at its semi-circular amphitheater, which was small but in superb condition. If a similar ancient town existed in America, it would be unthinkable that you could have it to yourself—for free.
Another thing I miss is the light. There’s a quality to the light in the Mediterranean that I’ve never seen—or at least imagine I haven’t—anywhere else. I tried to describe it in my journal when we visited Karmylassos, a ghost town built of stone.
“Looking south from a terrace next to the church, there’s a slope about half a mile distant, and the light is so thick it’s a gold mist coming down on a hard slant. The edges of the houses are almost blurred, but the effect, maybe, is more like haloing—except there’s nothing round. Not a crown of light, more like an aura … borealis is north, this is the aura (not aurora) a la Mediterren. You can’t see the water, but you know the sea is there just beyond the hills.
Every house has a chimney and every chimney looks like a tiny tower with 8 windows (about big enough to frame a squirrel’s head) and a peaked cap like a roof on a cottage. Where plaster still smooths walls made of stone blocks, there are often the remnants of paint—red and blue are the only two colors we came across.
I watch the shadows of tall grass gone to seed sway on a wall. And we wait as though we can see evening falling.’
A variation of this description appears in “Pub Blues,” the first story in Old Man Evil. For a fuller account of our adventures on that trip, including they’re recounted in a letter I wrote to my favorite contemporary poet, Albert Goldbarth, and can be read here:
www.maydaymagazine.com/a-tour-of-ancient-lykia-a-letter-sent-to-albert-goldbarth-by-vincent-czyz/.
Turkey’s allure, though, isn’t just matter of ancient ruins and a celebrated past. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than when I lived in Turkey. I had a job teaching English, which I enjoyed and which paid me well. I had enough free time to write. I had a close-knit group of friends, and in contrast to America, it didn’t take months of coordination for us to get together for barbecues, lunches, day trips, nights out, whatever. We sat in restaurants, bars, or meyhanes for long hours, eating and drinking or listening to live music. We had rambling, sometimes heated conversations about politics, literature, art, history—rarely sports—and the gatherings were international. Our circle included ex-patriots from Australia, England, America, Scotland, Ireland, Canada, as well as Turks. Istanbul was to me, I suppose, what Paris was to Henry Miller. Neslihan, a native of Turkey, and I are still thinking about retiring on Turkey’s southwest coast.
What do you enjoy the most about teaching? What do you hope that your students learn from you?
I enjoy reading new fiction from a new generation, and I enjoy helping shape a manuscript’s final form. When I was a wrestling coach and I saw one of my wrestlers score with a move I’d taught him, it was a great feeling. The feeling is similar when I see the students make improvements in their writing. What I most hope students learn is that there’s no single approach to writing fiction. Rather, there are numerous ways to succeed with a story or novel. Flannery O’Connor’s plain-spoken prose can work as well as Faulkner’s lush Southern Gothic or David Foster Wallace’s cerebral postmodernism. One author or technique isn’t necessarily “better” than another. Do we really think, for example, that Hemingway’s “Old Man and the Sea” would be a better book if it were an avant-garde experiment? Or that Joyce should’ve written “Ulysses” in the style of a Raymond Carver?
What are some of the most daunting aspects of being a writer?
The most daunting aspect of writing, at least for me, is the struggle to put into words what I want readers to see and feel, what I want readers to take away from a given scene or story. There are so many ways to screw it up—you can underwrite, overwrite, churn out banal writing, slip into cliché or come off as contrived or pretentious. You can lead the reader by the nose or be so subtle you leave readers bewildered. You can think you’ve done justice to your subject and conveyed what you’d hoped to only to have someone looking over an early draft tell you, no, that’s not what they got from these pages. Then you’re back at it.
Coming up with a structure, whether for a short story or a novel, can also be daunting. Do you tell the story chronologically or do you use the occasional flashback? Maybe you alternate evenly between past and present. And which point of view do you tell the story from: first person? Third-person? Omniscient? Limited omniscient (in which the only head you’re ever in is the protagonist’s)? Do you alternate between points of view? If so, how often? Or between past and present and multiple points of view? I’ve seen all of these variations and others put into practice—and work. They each have advantages and disadvantages, and you need to figure out the structure that’s going to work best for your story.
And where do you end the scene or story? How much do you give the reader? I try to avoid being prescriptive, by which I mean telling the reader what to think or feel. I do my best to imply what I want a reader will come away with. Still, stating overtly what you want the reader to understand or feel is an easy trap to fall into.
Those are probably the most daunting aspects of composing the work. Then comes launching the work into the world, which, if you want to land a major publisher, means first landing an agent. Even with an agent, the process can take years. My first novel, for example,took about 32 years and two agents to see it into print. I began writing “Sun Eye Moon Eye” in 1985, but it wasn’t published until 2024. For the whole tempestuous backstory, complete with many a “close but no cigar” situation, see my recent essay “Portrait of the Author in the Age of Conglomeration,”which also gives a summary of the last several decades of American publishing (www.clereviewofbooks.com/the-age-of-conglomeration/).
Can you tell us a little about your newest work, “Old Man Evil: & Other Stories”? Are there any particular stories in this one that you enjoyed writing the most?
There’s a simple organizing principle for the book: the first story is set in America, the second abroad, and so on. It’s an eclectic collection, diverging not only in location but in prose style, time period (two of the stories take place in the 19th century), and narrative form. Specific settings are also scattered across a broad spectrum: New York City, a shantytown in New Mexico (and the surrounding desert), Auschwitz during World War II, small-town Kansas, Serbia, urban and suburban New Jersey, Turkey (both city and country). The stories, nine of which were previously published in literary magazines, were written over decades, the earliest being a modified chapter of “Sun Eye Moon Eye”, while the most recent was finished in 2021.
“Old Man Evil,” as I mentioned above, is probably my single favorite story—and the one I most enjoyed writing—but I’m also enjoyed writing the second story, “Chele Kula,” which, translated from Serbo-Croatian, means “Tower of Skulls.” After the Battle of Chegar Hill in Nish, Serbia, in which the Turks won a pyrrhic victory in 1809, the commander of the Turkish army built a tower out of stones and the skulls of slain Serbian soldiers. It was a warning to other Serbians contemplating rebellion against the Ottoman Empire. The story is told from the points of view of a Serbian soldier living in the 19th century, a contemporary American tourist in Serbia, and the ghost of the Serbian soldier.
The story would never have been written if I hadn’t gotten stuck in Nish during a trip through what used to be Yugoslavia. There was one bus a day to Sarajevo, and I missed it. I decided to make the most of it and visited the Tower of Skulls. I spent a lot of time in the one-room, one item museum built around the tower, trying to imagine lives for the men whose skulls were still embedded tower’s walls (most had been reclaimed by family members). By the time I got back to Istanbul, where I was living at the time, I’d already started outlining “Chele Kula.”
There tends to be a story behind each of the stories in this collection. “Hamlet’s Ghost Sighted in Frontenac, KS,” for example, is based on a misadventure with a horse and a hallucinogenic night in Kansas that lasted until dawn. “Contrary Star” recounts a friend’s struggles with drug addiction so faithfully it approaches creative nonfiction. “The Moon Has Fallen into a Well” was inspired by the climax of a tragedy I happened upon in Istanbul. I was part of a writers’ group, and one night, after a meeting, several of us encountered two policemen pulling a sheet of plastic over a body at the foot of Galata Tower. Someone had climbed over the safety rail and jumped from the top. The image of the body lying on the cobblestones haunted me for days, and writing the story became a kind of exorcism. And so on.
What do you think it takes to make an interesting and lifelike character come to life through words?
Observing people closely, taking note of their tics, idiosyncrasies, speech patterns, and the way they interact with others. Listening to people when they talk—always listening—paying special attention to their thought processes, to their motivations, to their justifications for what they do. Also, though, taking the diving bell into yourself, honestly assessing your own desires, actions, and emotional exchanges.
A lot of contemporary writers tend to neglect character. Which is often problematic, sometimes highly problematic, since the emotions in a work of fiction are rooted in character: if readers don’t care about the characters, they’re not emotionally invested in the story. It’s a criticism that can be legitimately leveled against, for example, Thomas Pynchon, whose fiction tends to be populated by cartoonish caricatures rather than characters.
Do you have a dream project you’d most like to bring into existence? What can your readers look forward to next?
My dream project is “Nowhere Zen New Jersey”. A kind of lengthy sequel to “Old Man Evil,” it’s set primarily in the same New Mexican shantytown, but it has a different protagonist and focuses on a new set of characters. Told through several different narrative voices, the novel branches out into Mexican and Native American folklore, myth, and history. There are also letters, poems, and journal entries penned by various characters. Other texts—found objects so to speak—include song lyrics and brief excerpts from newspapers and books. Certain fictional elements, such as the Haunted Pueblo, are presented as historical. This reflects the way legend is often confused with history as well as my fondness for blurring borders, geographical and otherwise, including those between fiction and nonfiction. The novel, which casts doubt on the notion of linear time and emphasizes the importance of dreams, also suggests indigenous/non-Western ways of seeing the world. These are all things that interest me deeply, and I hope at some point to be able to devote a year or two to writing “Nowhere Zen New Jersey’. So far, I haven’t gotten much beyond the note-taking stage.
The next novel I expect to see published is “The Aeon of Forgetting”, a departure for me since it’s an urban fantasy. An ancient soul escapes from heaven and finds his way back to Earth,where he attaches himself to a New York City librarian—Charlotte—who tries to help Ari discover who he was in life while discouraging his romantic interest. The situation is complicated by Charlotte’s heroin-addicted brother and a pair of angels armed with 9mm automatics who’ve been sent to bring Ari back. In addition to dodging stray bullets, Charlotte has to contend with the dismantling of her Christian worldview, which doesn’t survive the answers the angels have for her questions. While there are key elements of genre fiction in “Aeon”, it’s a literary novel that explores art, existential mysteries, and the arresting beauty of the here and now.
“Aeon” was actually in the final stages of production and was due out in August of 2026 (the Amazon page is still up!), but the editor, who also happens to be the owner of the publishing house, kept trying to rewrite it. I kept gently reminding her that the editor isn’t supposed to rewrite the novel as though she were author but to make suggestions in keeping with the narrative voice and the vision the book presents. When she made a drastic change to the climax and gave me an ultimatum—accept the new scenario or walk away from the contract—I opted to keep the original climax. I’m currently looking for a new publisher.
Is there anything you’d like to say in closing?
I would urge readers to be more open to the books coming out of small, independent presses and pay less attention to what the New York mega-publishers—there are only five left—are peddling. The truth is, many accomplished literary authors who didn’t have spectacular sales were pushed to the indies and university presses. So books by these authors won’t, as a rule, get more than a smattering of reviews in barely read publications or much in the way of publicity since few indie presses have a publicist, let alone an entire marketing department, and few reviewing bodies care what comes out of the small presses. It also means sales will be even more dismal for a given literary novel than they would’ve been at one of the Big Five.
And when I mention small presses, I’m not talking about Milkweed or Graywolf or Coffee House, which receive donations from wealthy foundations and are wildly successful by small-press standards. I’m talking about small presses founded by idealistic editors and authors who want to promote literature for literature’s sake, presses such as McPherson & Co., Two Dollar Radio, Unnamed Press, Unbound Edition Press, Dzanc Books, City Lights Books, Turner Publishing, Small Beer Press, Sarabande Books, Etruscan Press, Baobab Press, Braddock Avenue Books, Counterpath Press, Counterpoint Press, Solid Objects (not to be confused with A Strange Object), Permanent Press, FC2, Outpost 19, Persea Books, Spuyten Duyvil, Rain Mountain Press, and Running Wild Press to name a handful, as well as a plethora of university presses.
Almost without fail fiction published by these presses is passed over for prizes. All of which “validates” the publishing choices the Big Five make and perpetuates the myth that, with rare exceptions, all the good writing comes from them. So it’s not just the editors who guard the gates; it’s also the media.
Proof of the impressive work coming out of small presses includes three Nobel Prize winners—Olga Tokarczuk, Jon Fosse, and Han Kang—who were first published in America (or in English) by a small press; in the case of Fosse, exclusively by small presses. But there are many, many other examples. For a fuller rundown, see the aforementioned essay on the author in the age of conglomeration—and don’t overlook the indie presses.






































