Something bright blue, potentially cancerous, and delicious
A reflection on Sean Ennis' new collection, Hope and Wild Panic
By Zachary Kocanda
I love fiction for how it surprises me. Sean Ennis’s new book Hope and Wild Panic is a collection of surprises. There are stories here that would be called flash fiction, and even micro fiction, given their length—the first story is just fifty-two words. There are titles that run directly into first lines, more poetry than prose. There’s a twenty-page flashback story. And that’s followed by a one-pager.
This is a book about a man who loves his wife. A father. An addict in recovery. A guy who works with student-athletes. A resident of Water Valley, Mississippi. These stories draw from his life throughout his recovery, as well as before he quit drinking, when “something terrifying happened to us.” That story’s a favorite. Honestly, you don’t have to read them in order—with Ennis’s carefully selected sentences, you have a deep understanding of this character wherever you drop in. These stories have plots, yes, and character arcs, but flip to any page and you will immediately be sucked in by this voice, which feels as intimate as if this man were writing an email directly to you to make amends. The sentences dance; the language delights.
And the language of Hope and Wild Panic has rooted itself deep into my brain. On this summer’s hottest days, I frequently crave a Sonic slushie or at least “something bright blue, potentially cancerous, and delicious,” as the narrator describes the beverage. There’s a refrain featured in several stories, “Rejoice with me, I have beaten [insert illness here],” a call to action that I too echo in moments of celebration. And now, when I see a sunset, I think of the narrator’s reaction to seeing one on a trip to Alabama: “No one really cares, but I swear I’m doing excellent work. For example, my reply to the sunset over the bay: that’s crazy.” That one gets me every time. This book will catch you off guard with how funny it is.
Our narrator is the best guide in town, even if that’s not his job. We are endeared to Water Valley through his trips to Piggly Wiggly, Ouija board sessions with his son, and conversations at the Watermelon Carnival. Like a handy WPA guide, there are entries about the flora, fauna, and politics of Water Valley. Learn about the area’s natural world not through stories, but so-called idylls, joining our narrator while chain-smoking on “nature walks” around the back yard. And there is a series of stories named after Airbnbs rented for trips near and far. Of course, no matter how far he travels, at the end of the day, our narrator returns to his family, to the love of his life. The people he cares about more than anything.
Hope and Wild Panic is silly and serious, sexy and strange. It’s sad at times. And sweet. Having edited this collection, I’ve read these stories many times, but even now, when I reread them, I find different lines to fixate on—sentences that feel completely new, that still surprise me. A hard truth. A one-off joke. A sly reference. In one story, our narrator starts to say, “If I were a different storyteller I might have…”—but thankfully, we have this one. Rejoice with me, and open this book.
Zachary Kocanda is a Chicago-based writer, editor, and book reviewer whose fiction has appeared in Joyland, Oyez Review, and Another Chicago Magazine, among others. He currently hosts the monthly Test Literary Series at The Whistler in Logan Square. More at zacharykocanda.com.