Speed Up, Turn Here, Slow Down, Here’s Just Fine, I’ll Walk, Thanks: Lee Bob Black Interviews Amy Braunschweiger, Author of Taxi Confidential
Amy Braunschweiger is the author of Taxi Confidential: Life, Death and 3 a.m. Revelations in New York City Cabs. In this interview, Amy discusses pothead speed demon cabbies, learning journalism by being one of the few women in a room filled with men, learning how to write a nonfiction book by accepting a book deal rather than doing an MFA, assuaging her flirtatious nature while working, renting a cubicle to force herself to get out of her apartment, erring on the side of too much information, and vomiting ideas onto the page.
Lee Bob Black: I’m intrigued by recent literary fabrications and hoaxes, such as those perpetrated by James Frey in his memoir A Million Little Pieces, and by Laura Albert as JT LeRoy. Regarding your new book, Taxi Confidential, what do have to say about the possibility that some of the cabbies might have passed off fiction as fact?
Amy Braunschweiger: Well, memory is a variable thing. It changes over time — studies have shown that. And many people have an innate ability to tell us a story. So they embellish, they change things, they create suspense. But they don’t think of themselves as lying. They think they’re telling a story. And they are. That’s why, in the beginning of the book, we have the same disclaimer that you have in memoir.
I did the best I could to fact-check the book. For example, in one story, I featured a pothead speed demon cabbie. He regularly drove faster than 100 miles per hour. And in this story, he picked up a photo editor for a major news publication, and took her to the airport. They were flying-in photos of the budding Iraq/Iran war. The war hadn’t yet been made public, and they had a photographer hidden on the border. This was to be the front-page story, with the photos as proof.
This was before the internet and digital photos — where a messenger with film was flown in on the Concord and hand the film off to the photo editor, and the cabbie would drive as fast as he could to the publication’s headquarters, so they could get the photos into the next issue. He did that.
When I interviewed him, he gave me the name of the publication. Thing was, I couldn’t verify it. I looked at all their cover photos from ’81 and ’82 that I could find, and a number featured the [Iran/Iraq] war, but I didn’t see all of them. And I called the publication, and they said it could have happened, and that they did fly in photos with the Concord, but they couldn’t tell me which issue broke the news. And I tried to find the photo editor, but couldn’t.
So I left the name of the publication out of the story.
What’s funny about this story is that the [cabbie] used to be the biggest scammer, scamming passengers for money, speeding up his meter illegally. He was also a huge pothead. He smoked all the time. [Once] a sheriff was in the car, and when [the cabbie] drove so well so fast, the sheriff asked him to join the police force, but the driver knew he’d never pass a drug test.
LBB: Why did you want to capture stories about taxi drivers?
AB: It wasn’t my book idea. The publisher came to me with it.
I had written a number of articles on “industrial New York” for the Village Voice. The editor even joked that that was my “beat.” I wrote about the high line, abandoned subways, abandoned buildings and the like.
Lee Klancher at Voyageur Press saw this, liked it, called me up thinking I was the writer to execute his idea. I turned the book deal down twice because I didn’t think they were paying enough. But at the same time, I wanted to branch into nonfiction writing.
I had always worked as a journalist. I was even considering taking classes, possibly a grad degree. Then a friend — who had a great degree — basically said, “You moron. Why pay someone else to teach you to write like this, when you could take the book deal and get paid to learn it?” I owe her. Big.
LBB: I was inspired by how Dave Eggers and Valentino Achak Deng collaborated for years, via face-to-face meetings, emails, tape recordings, and phone conversations, to create What Is The What: The Autobiography of Valentino Achak Deng.
How did you source your material? For instance, did you start with face-to-face meetings, then email back and forth? Did you search for cabbie blogs?
AB: I did face-to-face interviews with all the cabbies. But I did contact some because they had blogs.
It’s not always easy getting these guys to talk to you. And I do say guys because cabbies are 99 percent men.
But there’s a huge socio-economic divide. I’m female, white, and educated in the USA. Around 90 percent of cabbies are foreign born, and around 50 percent are born in Muslim countries. Some are educated, some aren’t, but English isn’t necessarily their first language. They come from places where you have a very different relationship with the press — as in, talking with the press gets you thrown in jail. So one of my strategies was to contact cabbies through blogs, then ask if they had any friends, and if they had any friends, etc.
Of all the cabbies I contacted because of blogs, I only used one of their stories. John was heavily involved in the [Irish Republican Army]. And he had this great story about how he used his cab to further his political cause.
One day in the ’80s he was driving through Times Square, which was still seedy, and he saw a billboard with an electronic ad on it. At this time, this was a new thing. So he got an idea. He went around to all the bars in the Bronx where the Irish people drank, and collected about $2000. Then he paid the owner of the sign to put up a message: “Merry Christmas to all the Irish Prisoners of War in America, Ireland and England. Ireland Gaelic and Free.” The graphic was a picture of Ireland with the border between north and south blowing up. John signed it UTP, which means up the Provos, which was the mantra of the Provisional IRA. The guy with the sign didn’t know this.
So the sign flashed on the day it was supposed to. Mind you, this was shortly after an attempt was made on Margaret Thatcher’s life [in October 1984 when a] bomb had gone off in a hotel she was staying at. When the media got sight of the UTP sign, all hell broke loose. International news headlines — which I haven’t been able to confirm — said, “IRA hijacks Times Square!”
John was really happy with it.
He also used his cab to protest the Republican National Convention in NYC [in 2004].
LBB: I’m interested in how you said that New York cabbies are overwhelmingly male. What additional thoughts do you have on this? For instance, how was it writing from a man’s perspective? And though I don’t mean the following crassly, I’m interested if you used your gender in any way to write this book? Any subtle flirting?
AB: Because it’s a nonfiction book, I wasn’t really writing from a man’s perspective. They told me their stories, and I wrote them, using their voice, and the information they gave me. Info, I might say, that was acquired from many follow-up interviews scavenging for details.
I’ve had lots of experience being thrown into a man’s world. I used to be a financial reporter, and any time they sent you to a technology conference — as in, company execs, analysts, and the what not — it was pretty much me and five other women in a room full of men in black suits. So I wasn’t unused to being the “girl” in the room, although it’s not a situation I’ve ever been totally comfortable with.
I’m not exactly sure how I used my gender to write this book. When I met with the cabbies, I wore slightly nicer clothes and put on mascara, but I would do that whether they were male or female.
When it comes to flirting, if anything, I probably flirted less with cabbies. The thing is, I’m a flirty person. I laugh, I engage people in conversation, I touch people. But it’s not just men. It’s men and women. It’s how I interact with people.
But in this case, I was often dealing with men from different cultures and backgrounds. I didn’t know where they were coming from, their value systems, their expectations. Above all, I wanted their stories, and I didn’t want to offend them with my “brutish American ways.” So I took care to speak using less flirting. I didn’t want to give the wrong idea. I also didn’t want them to see me as someone untrustworthy, a scarlet women, if you will.
LBB: Who has helped the most with your writing?
AB: I rent a cubicle at a writers’ space called Paragraph. It’s in NYC, near Union Square. When I joined, I was a journalist. When it came to writers, I only knew journalists — primarily financial ones. At Paragraph, I met screenwriters, novelists, graphic novelists, and people who wrote for TV, including “The Colbert Report.”
When I got the book deal, I had no idea how to write nonfiction. So I reported the stories. I had my new friends correct my stories. They would tell me, “You need to slow down the action here and create suspense.” “You need to speed this up.” “I need a better physical description.” “I need more tension up higher.” Things journalists don’t know.
Then my book got killed. It was rough. I didn’t know what to do. I knew nothing about publishing or agents. And everyone I knew at Paragraph hooked me up with their agents. Even if they wouldn’t be a good fit for me, they figured their agents could offer advice, or point me in the right direction. They told me what publishers to go with or not to go with. What signs to look for. What’s most important. And one woman said, and I take this to heart, “Your first book will always be a disaster. Might as well work on it with someone you like, who will listen to you.” One of my friends at Paragraph — who has a following — even had a Name Amy’s Book contest on his blog.
LBB: What are your thoughts on the differences between fiction and nonfiction, in terms of writing and reading them?
AB: I’m a very complete interviewer. I always have been. I always error on the side of having too much information, and leaving some out. The more you know, the more you understand, and you can always see the big picture. Also, if you’re cutting out good detail, imagine how good the detail you’re leaving in is.
I’ve always liked fiction better than nonfiction. This despite being a nonfiction writer. Good fiction is so rich with details. The authors really understand their characters, their motivations, weaknesses, strengths. You grow to love these characters and their worlds because you know them so well, not just because of the skill of the writing, but because of the intimacy between the writers and their characters.
I also love nonfiction, because I love telling other people’s stories. Truth is stranger than fiction and all of that. But really good nonfiction writers need both the interviewing skills of journalists and the writing skills of fiction writers to make their work really powerful. If they don’t have the good interviewing skills, they’ll never get their sources to trust them. They’ll never get in their minds. They’ll never understand their fears and needs the way a fiction writer understands the characters they created. Nonfiction writers need to be able to pick up the essence of the landscape and the scene and have it be accurate — they can’t just make it up. Then, they have to write using the best fiction techniques. They have to develop their characters and increase tension. The best will have deeper levels of meaning. This is hard to come by — the best of both worlds. I’m not that person. I idolize people who can do that, but I’m leagues behind them. It would be a dream to write as well as the best nonfiction writers.
LBB: How is the editing process for you?
AB: When it comes to writing and editing my own work, well, the first time around, I pretty much just vomit onto the page. I don’t stop and edit at all. It’s just about getting all the ideas down, and sometimes there’s structure there, but it’s loose, and it will change. Everything — every word, paragraph, the general structure — is a placeholder for what I want to do.
Then I go over it and make changes, and I do it again and again and again. Until I think it’s as good as I can get it. I go over it a million times, it feels sometimes.
I always know what’s an A story, what’s a B or a C story, when I’m done. And if it’s a B story, but I can’t get it any further myself, that’s when I ask my editor. Because I’m out of ideas.
LBB: What music do you listen to while writing?
AB: In the beginning, when I’m vomiting onto the page, if you will, I listen to mellow electronic music. Something loose, with lots of space between the notes, like Air or Kruder Dorfmester, Gotan Project. When I’m in the last phase of editing, when I’m doing the final tighten and polish, I generally work with some speed, so I listen to speedy tight electronic music, techno, trance. I need a steady beat, something rhythmic, and more samples and lyrics. I don’t want to get caught up in the music, I want to move with it, and have it be the background to my work.
In the middle I listen to whatever, but generally there’s a pattern to the rhythm I choose. Something not too peppy, but not too slow. I like air between the notes, so I feel like I have space in my mind to think. At these points, I listen to a lot of Blonde Redhead, or Mojo Club CDs from a club in Hamburg.
LBB: What else can you share about your writing routine?
AB: I love writing, but I don’t want to do it seven days a week. I don’t want to do it six days a week. I don’t want to do it twelve hours a day. I need my life.
Other people hate their cubicles and dream of leaving them, and I rent one. I go to my cubicle in Paragraph every day, and depending on my motivation, I get there between 9:30 and 11. I stay for about 8 hours. Then I go home. I don’t take my laptop with me. I try not to work weekends. I like my life. My life outside of writing, that is.
LBB: Do you daydream about writing your autobiography or a memoir?
AB: No.
LBB: Before deciding upon Taxi Confidential, what titles were you considering?
AB: I was in love with A Checkered Past, but another book had that. Although titles aren’t copyrighted, my publisher didn’t want to go with this, thinking it may cause confusion with Google searches and online sales. My other fave was On the Meter, Off the Record. They didn’t go for that title, either. So Taxi Confidential it is. You know what the book is about immediately. No confusion.
LBB: You mentioned earlier that you were a financial reporter. How was that?
AB: Writing for Dow Jones was very interesting. You could say I learned everything there. When I got hired, I didn’t know what a stock was. But I learned. Fast. I liked writing market commentary. If you wanted to predict where the market would open, you would look at the price of oil, gold, how the markets in Asia and Europe closed, the news that already came out and the news that was expected to come out, and how said news would affect said sectors. I loved writing feature stories there. Because you had to combine the hard-core reporting skills you had with the ability to write. A lot of my features made it into the Wall Street Journal, which is a publication I love.
After I left Dow Jones, no one wanted to hire me as anything besides a newswire reporter. Bloomberg would look at me, maybe Reuters, but no one else. But I was burned on stocks and newswires. I really wanted to write about what I wanted to write about.
I got my break with the Village Voice. I pitched them an article on abandoned buildings, and as luck would have it, my editor’s son was way into abandoned buildings. He accepted my story, and I got more work from them — writing bar reviews, stories about subways, etc. — that offset my straight-up financial background. It allowed other people to see me in a different light, like they could hire me for different things. And it allowed me to see that other people could see me in a different light, if that makes any sense.
