Willy Vlautin has expressed his enduring affinity for the broken, worn, and damaged parts of life. He admits there’s a level of comfort, an echo of familiarity, when he encounters those whose lives have been roughened, scattered, disturbed in some way. Vlautin himself cuts an easygoing, warm, and genuine figure, a man who meets your eyes and speaks as he sings – clear and harmonious. His rewards have come in the form of acclamation as both a writer and musician, rubbing shoulders with high-fliers such as Donna Tartt, Roddy Doyle and Colm Tóibín. His musical prowess, working with groups like Richmond Fontaine and more recently The Delines, has earned him devoted followers in Europe, Australia, and the United States.
Underneath his firm exterior, however, lies a maze of vulnerabilities that infiltrate his works. Vlautin—now in his mid-fifties—has built the entirety of his seven novels on individuals burdened by life’s harsh trials. Life stories, not unlike his own. In his inaugural novel, The Motel Life, he painted a picture of two blue-collar brothers barely scrapping by. His sophomore attempt, Northline, dealt with the trials of anxiety. Lean on Pete, his third book, sensitively narrated a bond between a neglected lad and his racehorse. Each tale a close-to-home excavation.
Finding strength through adversity is a theme in his work and life. His mother had a unique take on alcoholism; If a man has the grit to face work, despite nursing a hangover, then he is not an alcoholic.
Vlautin’s new narrative introduces us to another horse, this particular one on the verge of death, blinded in one eye; it is found by Al, a gaunt 65-year-old character with grey hair, blue eyes. Al parallels the horse in his struggle for life, battling alcohol and his own internal unrest. His solitary life in the heart of Nevada’s high desert is hardly life. His mine-side existence revolves around canned soup, a faulty car, and a pistol within arm’s length, tucked securely inside a mossy-green metal chest.
“The Horse” is a work of fiction overflowing with simple truths, hard-won insights and phrases that strike deep. For even Vlautin, it may hit too deeply. He had no initial plans to put the novel in the public domain – presently, over a cup of tea in a city-based hotel in Dublin, there’s palpable hesitation and veering when he talks about his book. His smile brings crinkles to his eyes, a look of remorse evident. “I carry a box full of flaws. Among them is the fact that I seldom consider the audience when I pen a book. With this work, I lost sight of the striking parallels between the protagonist and myself,” he admits.
As the narrative travels back in time, it traces the downward spiral of Al’s life. “This is my own exploration of alcohol addiction,” confesses Vlautin. While he doesn’t view himself as bad as Al, he admits that he’s not far off. He sees alcohol consumption as akin to toying with a venomous snake; not a question of if it will bite, but rather when and how fiercely. “My mother had a high tolerance for alcohol. In her eyes, a true man is one who manages to work through a hangover, while an alcoholic doesn’t. So, if you’re able to work, you’re not an alcoholic. My brother and I, for years, dragged ourselves to work, but never skipped it,” Vlautin relates.
He grew up in Reno, Nevada, where he was born and raised. A naturally introverted child, Vlautin wrestled with acute self-awareness. Domestic life was tough: his mother, a solitary parent, battled anxiety and never had a day off from being a secretary; despite his father living nearby, they barely saw each other. The Nevada scenery was dramatic – the desert, the hawks gliding on thermal currents across the mountain ridges – but it was speckled with gambling establishments (“I loathe casinos: they’re the embodiment of evil”), early-opening taverns and all manner of enticements.
Al drinks to suppress his anxiety in the novel, a tactic Vlautin admits to employing himself. Has he stopped drinking? “I can’t break free,” he says, with disarming honesty. “Because of my anxiety. I’ve never found the strength to remove that crutch when I’ve needed it.”
In his early years, Vlautin discovered his means to liberation in his unwavering passion for music and arts. He confesses, “I dreamed of dwelling within the comforting rhythms of melodies. An idea that I adored profoundly. While records aren’t edible, one can surely participate. Raise a banner. I never aimed to be the inebriated lad spoiling the concert. I have the mettle of a draught horse. Allowing alcohol to take control was never my intention. I strive to better myself so that art always reigns supreme. I’d be drowned in shame should I allow alcohol to become an impediment.”
It appears Al never truly ‘arrives’ in the manner we assume bands and artists ought to. Nevertheless, he uncovers tranquility in the art of song composition. “Al tends to relate to broken individuals in the book,” Vlautin shares. “It’s a simple fact – shattered souls draw other shattered souls. If you’re wounded, you find comfort in the similarly wounded. Unless you learn to change that. To evolve beyond this took me years.”
Vlautin has regularly held low-paying, unassuming jobs, to sustain himself, whether while creating music or authoring books. He did not wish to get too cozy, exchanging his urge to craft art for the comfort a pleasant sofa or a larger flat might bring. “It was partly due to issues with self-doubt, partly because I knew finding wealth would lead to a more lavish dwelling. That would mean relinquishing everything.”
Vlautin suggests The Horse is a narrative about not being a part of a prosperous band for some readers. Al never really “arrives” as we expect artists and bands should. However, he discovers tranquility in songwriting. He finds an outlet for escape in lyrical composition. He finds comfort in his worn-out Telecaster. After reviewing the book, Vlautin’s friend, Craig Finn of The Hold Steady remarked, “He goes ‘Man, that guy had a fulfilling life! He was loved by a few ladies, was a part of an amazing band.’ He was the inaugural person who echoed my sentiments about him.”
Finn grasped the concept of finding satisfaction in the work itself. “When you pen a song and you believe it’s remarkable, it genuinely feels wonderful,” Vlautin remarks.
In the words of Al from The Horse, it amounts to “carrying optimism with you wherever you go”. The eminent book, The Horse, penned by Willy Vlautin, is currently available, courtesy of Faber.