Gina Nutt: “Fat Arms” follows a narrator who has a transformative experience during a family outing. What draws you to the otherworldly in your writing?
Leo K.: Writing the otherworldly is my natural inclination, it keeps me excited and playful. I often find myself offering my characters fantasy as escape and survival. Especially when their reality is oppressive, it can be a place to find something that feels true, hopeful, strategic. I also think a lot about what Ursula K. Le Guin said, that she “invents elaborate lies to describe reality.” I loved science fiction as a kid, and my first favorite movie was Back to the Future. The idea that you can play with time and form and bring characters together who would never be together otherwise – there’s so much power there.  

GN: How did you approach writing in the voice of a teenage narrator? What did you enjoy most about this perspective? Were there any notable challenges that came up as you worked?
LK: I really revere children and teens and find it easy to connect to those ages. I remember so clearly what it felt like to have so many emotions and observations, to feel so much injustice, and not have anyone to be a witness. I really enjoyed living in the truth of this character. They see things so clearly and have so much audacity, but because of their circumstance, they are forced to keep it inside. Their voice came from honing the way they talk in their mind. I loved exploring their inner voice because they are so observant and open to their own feelings. They are experiencing life as they move through it in a very visceral and immediate way. I would say my biggest challenge was what kind of ending to give them. What will they be left with once they return to their oppressive life? Ultimately, I connected to how being seen by just one person can change your whole world.

GN: The imagery in both the deli and storage closet lends itself to the cinematic. Can you share how your work as a filmmaker influences your writing, and vice versa? In addition to imagery, I’m curious to learn where else you notice overlap between these two creative practices.   
LK: Writing scripts is like writing a creative road map that 20/50/100 people use to create a world. When I started writing fiction, it was at once terrifying and freeing to write so directly to a reader, with nobody to interpret what I’ve written into an image, a score, a collaboration. It’s so intimate! But I’ve been making films my whole life and it is clearly informing how I write fiction. 

With this story, the more I got into the main character’s head, the more I started to see through her eyes. She’s an observer. She’s not been afforded many freedoms, but what she does have is what she sees. She can look at a beautiful woman across the room, she can see where her parents are and how much time she has before they’re back with danger. With film, it would be about how to show the hypervigilance in her eyes through lighting and framing, maybe a close-up on the corner of the woman’s mouth to show desire. Interiority can be difficult to show in film, especially if you don’t use voiceover, which I’m not keen on. What is so incredibly different with writing fiction, is how much I can just lay out what a character is thinking or feeling. How the moment they are experiencing reminds them of other moments in their life. Their abstract thoughts, their fears and desires. The freedom to go wherever a character wants in their mind is thrilling. And of course, writing fantasy or anything otherworldly without having to worry about production is a dream! The character grows several feet and there’s a room full of extras and we don’t have to worry about how we’re going to make that happen!

I think where I find the most similarity between the two mediums is with pacing, rhythm and musicality. How quickly are we moving through time using edits and cuts with film or sentences and paragraphs with fiction. Although the mechanics are different, things like time dilation, emphasis, and how a reader is brought through a scene or a moment is all about how I want the reader or viewer to feel. And whether I am playing back a scene or reading a passage out loud, I am making decisions from the same intuitive place. I know in my chest when an edit feels right, which I think is why the transition to fiction has felt fluid.

GN: What’s in your creative mosaic? Books, music, restaurants, films, visual art, fashion, ephemera, architecture, anything that energizes your writing.
LK: Fernando Eimbcke’s perfect queer coming of age movies Duck Season and Lake Tahoe. The hilarious and poignant films of Cheryl Dunye, especially Watermelon Woman. Céline Sciamma’s exquisite Petite Maman. The spiritual and deeply humanistic films of Agnès Varda, I mean all of her films really, but if you’re new to her, her short documentaries Mur Murs and Black Panthers are a good place to start. I’m currently on a Jamaica Kincaid kick and am obsessed with the way she writes voice. I love Deborah Levy’s insightful weirdness, Alexander Chee’s brilliant essays and observations. The visual art of Ruth Asawa, Joe Overstreet and Kara Walker stay with me. I listen to so much music, but some desert island picks are Hailu Mergia’s Wede Harer Guzo, Broadcast’s Tender Buttons, Bill Evans’ On Green Dolphin Street, Arthur Russell’s Calling Out of Context, and Beverly Glenn-Copeland’s Keyboard Fantasies.

And then there’s other things helping me feel alive lately - composting, old Sondheim interviews, turning the daddy longlegs in my shower into a pet, supporting my friends’ creative projects, my incredible therapist, tiny desk concerts, farmers market eggs, a good grid notebook, my late dog Gus, the SFV mutual aid group, coconut water.