Videos of People Falling Down

Editor’s Note

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When I first encountered Thomas Pierce’s writing, it set off quiet and powerful earthquakes in my brain. His stories have the power to bring you immediately into their world, and then turn you upside down, sideways, and transformed. Reading his manuscript for the first time, I felt the tension and anticipation (and greediness) that an editor feels when they know… this is one I must publish. This is a voice that needs to be delighted in, needs to be heard.

Everyone who has read Hall of Small Mammals—the collection which includes this story — has confided in me that, of course, this story or that story was the best one, the stand-out of the collection. And it would always be a different story. Every story in this collection is someone’s favorite, including this one, “Videos of People Falling Down.” I hadn’t ever seen this reaction before, and it speaks to the incredible diversity and brilliance of Thomas’ writing. The striking thing to me was this sense of intense ownership and kinship readers felt with Thomas’ work. They came into his world and felt like it was their own.

A powerhouse of inventiveness and imagination, “Videos of People Falling Down” is structured like a symphony that plays back on itself, building to a crescendo of emotion and experience. When Thomas and I were editing the story, we had charts and lists of characters and long discussions about who and what and why. We kept talking about it as a puzzle that needed to fit all together; that’s the technical stuff, but the stuff that sucks you right in is the humanity of this piece and Thomas’ artful storytelling.

This story is about the interplay of a group of people. Their connections are revealed, their personalities exposed. It’s also about our personal failings, our falls, and how they’re captured and replayed in modern society (and in our own minds) over and over, becoming a part of the cultural fabric. Searing and playful images and motifs run throughout: a woman who falls into a polar bear habitat at the zoo, a book about beekeepers, a murderous cellist, Brahms’ “Hungarian Dance No. 5.” I played that song on my violin as a young girl and when I saw it in this story, I could hear the melody in my mind. It was a personal, emotional link to the storytelling, something that Thomas has an uncanny way of bringing out for every reader, making his collection both universal and still very intimate.

Enjoy this story — perhaps it will be your favorite story — and to find out more about this wild and wooly world of Thomas’ writing, read his book, Hall of Small Mammals.

Laura Perciasepe

Editor, Riverhead Books