I don’t pull punches...
and I don’t sprinkle fairy dust.
William Faulkner once said that the only thing worth writing about is “the human heart in conflict with itself.” That’s a rough paraphrase, but in my stories, I explore the perplexing roots of these conflicts, whether cultural, familial, religious, racial, personal, or political. In doing so, I often find myself writing about loss—of life, love, language, land, culture, trust, faith—and our sometimes heroic, other times comical, and always painful quest to fill the voids so ruthlessly left behind.
I realize that my writing is not for everyone. If you prefer life to be neat and tidy and easily resolved with a little red ribbon around the box, you may be disappointed. I don’t pull punches, and I don’t sprinkle fairy dust. By the same token, I may lead you through the labyrinth, but I won’t feed you to the Minotaur.
One critic said my stories are like a journey “through hope and despair with a moment of genuine joy at the end.” I think “genuine” is the operative word, and as a writer I have to earn that. As a reader, so do you. In my stories, faith is a terrible gift, love is tough but fragile, and forgiveness a perpetual work-in-progress. Ambiguity looks both ways before crossing the street but still gets hit by a bus, but it’s all good because redemption, in some form or another, is waiting just around the corner. But that, too, must be earned: trust. At the end you may emerge a bit startled and shaken but hopefully a little wiser than before. And smiling. Because I’m a comic at heart, and a romantic but a realist too. I like to tackle big themes--suffering and insight, death and consolation, despair and hope, obsession and restraint—in ordinary and mundane settings, but I will also whisk you away to exotic or marginalized lands. Landscape always plays a starring role in my stories, whether it’s the desolate, barren beauty of the Navajo Reservation or the lush suburbs of southern California.
I try to find beauty in every place and every person, but ordinariness often betrays them. They stumble and bumble and, when you least expect it, they reach up and catch a falling star. I often write about solitary people, profound loners in a crowd, not as stock oddballs but those who wish to fit in but can’t or those who have imposed a self-exile: unsung heroes in hiding. Also, I write about the plain, the salt of the earth, the duty-bound but broken-hearted who put on a good public face, men and women toughened by mundane mortality who on the darkest day of the year can somehow fend off imminent doom with a good one-liner. And there’s a special joy in that, and victory.
A native of southern California, Michael Fillerup is the author of numerous prize-winning short stories, a short story collection Visions and Other Stories, two novels (Beyond the River and Go in Beauty), several children’s books, and mounds of obscure, unpublished, illegible drafts. According to his son Benjamin: “My father is the best unread author I’ve never read.” His three daughters are more complimentary about his writing career; they are also receiving a significantly larger portion of his estate, which means they will each get two Navajo sand paintings instead of one. Michael attended Brigham Young University-Hawaii, Brigham Young University-Provo, and Arizona State University before moving to the Navajo Reservation in 1978 where he, his wife Rebecca, and their four children lived for six years. During his 34 year career in public education, he developed and supervised numerous programs for language minority children.
In addition, he designed and directed two Navajo language revitalization programs and is the founder and former director of Puente de Hozho Tri-lingual Magnet School in Flagstaff, Arizona. He has two passions: writing and saving languages. His hobbies include: hiking, cross-country skiing, swimming, kayaking, and theater. He currently lives in Payson, Arizona with Rebecca who doubles as his best friend and confidant, ruthless editor, and full-time Muse.