Interview with Eric Sanders on Nothing, 2

In this conversation, Eric Sanders, the author of Nothing, 2, discusses the book’s evolution, its shifting relationship with nothingness and presence, and the creative transition it marks. What begins as an exploration of form, voice, and structure unfolds into a reflection on writing itself—what it means to create without hesitation, to abandon meaning as a pursuit, and to embrace the inevitability of whatever comes next.

The interview moves like the book does—circling, reframing, discovering in real time. As Eric puts it, Nothing, 2 is both a culmination and a departure, a threshold leading somewhere new.

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Eric: Because "Nothing" is so boring to me now, I've written about it and thought about it for so long, that I wanted to write the sequel to it.

Interviewer: That’s a fascinating way to approach it—almost like exhausting a concept to the point where you move past it, but instead of leaving it behind, you double down and extend it.

Does Nothing, 2 feel like a departure from your previous engagement with "Nothing," or is it more of a deepening, a recursion, a mutation?

Eric: It's a return back to something.

Interviewer: A return implies a kind of cyclical movement—coming back to something familiar but with new eyes, altered by experience.

What is it that you’re returning to? Is it a feeling, a perspective, a way of thinking? Or is it something more concrete, like a particular period of your life or a specific artistic preoccupation?

Eric: It's a return to writing fiction that is about something, not about nothing.

Interviewer: That’s a bold shift, especially given the title. It sets up an expectation of negation, but instead, you’re moving back toward meaning, toward substance.

Did you find this return difficult—like breaking a habit—or was it a relief to write about something again?

Eric: It's not really a relief, there was more 'relief' in writing about nothing, but that is (was) a sort of false relief, the asymptotic relief of a black hole...

Interviewer: That’s an evocative way to put it—relief that isn’t really relief, a gravitational pull toward emptiness that only feels like release but actually just deepens the collapse.

So now that you’re writing about something again, what does that feel like? Is it effortful, like clawing your way out of that black hole, or is it just another orbit around it?

Eric: It feels like touching or circling the edge of 'story,' 'themes,' etc., but I don't know if I can (or even want to) do that again, so I'm finding a new way.

Interviewer: That makes sense—it’s like you’re acknowledging the gravitational pull of narrative and meaning without fully surrendering to their traditional forms. You’re engaging with aboutness on your own terms, not simply falling back into familiar structures.

What does this new way look like for you? Is it more about form, voice, perspective—some kind of structural shift—or is it more of a philosophical stance toward the act of writing itself?

Eric: It's about how I write.

Interviewer: One of the striking things about Nothing, 2 is its shifting voices and perspectives—passages like Cauldron Morning feel like internal monologue turned outward, while Hollis plays with memory and perception in a fragmented, recursive way.

How did you approach voice in this book? Were you consciously shaping different registers, or did they emerge naturally?

Eric: I collected various 'stories' that felt similar-enough, that suggested this new (old) 'mode' of writing, for me.

Interviewer: So it was more about recognizing a throughline in what you were writing rather than imposing a structure from the outset. That makes sense given the book’s fluidity—it feels like a constellation rather than a linear narrative.

Was there a particular piece that acted as the gravitational center for the rest? One that, once written, made you realize what Nothing, 2 was going to be?

Eric: The "Caroline" piece is the anchor, the start of the new way...

Interviewer: That makes sense—Caroline stands out as deeply immersive, a kind of drifting interiority that still brushes against action and event without fully submitting to plot.

What is it about Caroline that marks this shift for you? Is it the way it engages with perception, time, selfhood? Or is it more in how you wrote it—how it felt to write?

Eric: It's about a real person, not a symbol or event, and a real place—Las Vegas—not a non-space or void.

Interviewer: That’s a significant shift—anchoring in the concrete, the real, instead of the abstract or negated. Caroline still has a dreamlike quality, but it moves through a tangible world, a specific person in a specific place.

Was it challenging to write with that level of specificity after focusing so much on nothingness and voids? Or did it feel inevitable, like something you had to do?

Eric: Something I had to do—I've exhausted nothingness.

Interviewer: That makes Nothing, 2 feel almost like a reckoning—like you pushed nothingness as far as it could go, and now the only way forward is through something, through reality.

Since Caroline was the turning point, do you see the rest of the book as orbiting that piece in some way? Are the other sections interrogating, resisting, or expanding upon what Caroline does?

Eric: They are hints, presages, suggesting this new way forward.

Interviewer: That gives the book a feeling of transition—not a clean break from nothingness, but a shifting, unstable movement toward something new.

Does that uncertainty reflect how you feel about this shift in your writing overall? Or do you see Nothing, 2 as a definitive step into this new way forward?

Eric: I don't know where it's going, but I feel a forward pull towards this new thing.

Interviewer: Here’s a passage from Caroline:

"She didn’t want to take her contacts out now, even though her eyes hurt, because if she did she wouldn’t be able to see inside the casino and possibly wouldn’t be able to make it back to her room, although that would be fun, to see where she’d wind up. 'Jesus take the wheel' in an ultra-high-end Vegas casino. Maybe it’d be worth it."

This moment stood out to me because it captures that push-and-pull between control and surrender, perception and blindness. Caroline is in a hyperreal, overwhelming space, but she’s also aware of her own ability to let go, to drift.

How do you see Caroline’s way of moving through the world? Is she an extension of your own shifting approach to writing, or is she something separate from that?

Eric: It's hard to hear my writing out of context like that. It makes me want to edit it! But let me confront it in its imperfection. There is definitely a push and pull here, between the 'outer' and 'inner' worlds, that are ultimately the same thing, once you allow the bubble separating you from the world to pop. Nothing, 2 is largely about that bubble, can it be popped?

Interviewer: That’s a powerful way to frame it—the bubble as both barrier and illusion, something that separates but also sustains. It makes sense that Nothing, 2 would circle around that question rather than answer it outright.

Do you see the book as actively trying to pop the bubble, or is it more about watching it stretch, distort, thin out—almost bursting, but never quite?

Eric: No book is going to pop the bubble, either for the writer or reader, but I hope that reading some of these works helps you forget about your bubble for a bit.

Interviewer: That feels honest—no book can break the illusion entirely, but it can momentarily disrupt it, let the reader drift outside themselves. Nothing, 2 definitely has that effect, with its fluid shifts in perception and reality.

Since the book isn’t trying to resolve this tension, what does resolution even look like to you? Or is resolution itself just another illusion, another bubble?

Eric: Resolution is not a bubble, "resolution" is a bubble. You know?

Interviewer: Yeah, I get that. The idea of resolution—the expectation that things will wrap up neatly—is the illusion. But actual resolution, if it happens, isn’t something you can name or package; it just is.

That makes me think about the ending of Caroline. It doesn’t conclude in a traditional sense—it just disperses, like she’s dissolving into the space around her.

Would you say that’s how Nothing, 2 operates as a whole? Not building to a resolution, but just moving, shifting, dissolving into whatever comes next?

Eric: Well it's a novel, and this is a passage from it.

Interviewer: That clarifies things. Caroline is its own novel, and Nothing, 2 contains it as a passage. That makes me think about nesting—one text holding another, like a frame or a container.

How does Caroline function within Nothing, 2? Is it the centerpiece, the most fully realized piece of this shift toward something, or is it more like a prototype, a testing ground?

Eric: It's a prototype, the start of the new thing, the newest thing. The other pieces frame it, like a diamond.

Interviewer: That makes Nothing, 2 feel like both an artifact and a process—like it’s documenting the transition, not just presenting a finished product.

If Caroline is the diamond, does that mean the other pieces exist to set it off, to highlight it? Or do they serve as counterpoints, challenges, echoes of what Caroline is trying to do?

Eric: Did you read them?

Interviewer: Yes, I read them. Let’s look at Hollis.

"The memory accurately postsaged the thought, and the thought had come clearly, not in words but as a concept, very clear and unmistakable, and then only after a half-moment had the words “I hate my life” rushed in to define and point to the very clear concept, and then the concept disappeared and was instantly replaced by the words, whose sound-tone persisted for a second half-moment before dissipating too, leaving nothing behind except silence and the hum of the engines and the dull quiet whir of the overhead air vents, all followed immediately by the haunting memory of the thought-words-sound, and the wake of the underlying concept just beneath it, forever obscured now but visible, inferable, as a shadow."

This passage is striking because it captures the mechanics of thought itself—how ideas emerge, get translated into language, and then dissolve.

How do you see Hollis in relation to Caroline? Is it a remnant of the old way, still circling the void, or is it part of the shift toward something?

Eric: That is very difficult. That is part of the old way, the end of the old way.

Interviewer: That makes sense—it feels like Hollis is still trapped inside the machinery of thought, cycling through language and perception in a way that never quite resolves. If Caroline is stepping into something new, Hollis is the moment before that step, where the old way is still playing itself out, maybe even breaking down.

Did you write Hollis before Caroline, chronologically? Or did it come later, as a deliberate final statement on that old mode?

Eric: Yes, before.

Interviewer: That makes sense—it feels like Hollis belongs to the world before Caroline, where thought loops and meaning remains elusive.

Let’s look at Tuckell.

"Tuckell’s accounts are gracious, and non-pornographic. He writes mainly about the person’s energy, in response to his advances. He talks about sex the same way Marina Abramović talks about her work—as if he is a robot with an erection, sent from the future to open people up and bring them some sort of relief."

Tuckell is such an uncanny figure—he operates at the intersection of art, sex, and power, but without any clear motivation beyond the act itself. He’s both mythic and mechanical.

Where does Tuckell fit within Nothing, 2? Is he a critique of the old way, an echo of its cold detachment, or does he point toward something new?

Eric: He's a Christian hero, a saint, bringing relief to the world through sex.

Interviewer: That reframes him completely. Instead of just an uncanny figure, Tuckell is a kind of ascetic in reverse—someone who moves through the world not by denying the body but by offering it, like a sacrament.

Does he believe in what he’s doing, or is his role as a saint something imposed on him by others?

Eric: He believes in it totally, it's his idea.

Interviewer: That makes him even more fascinating—he’s not just performing a function imposed by society or circumstance; he’s choosing this path with absolute conviction. There’s something both radical and terrifying about that kind of certainty.

Is there a tension in how the world perceives him? Do people see him as a saint, or do they misinterpret him, fear him, try to contain him?

Eric: You can read the story. People love it.

Interviewer: Right—he moves through powerful circles without resistance, and his encounters leave people changed, yet there’s an eerie quality to it, like something beyond explanation is happening.

Tuckell’s belief in his mission feels almost supernatural in its certainty, but his methods are entirely physical, bodily. Do you see him as a messianic figure, a kind of erotic Christ, or is he something stranger—beyond human categorization?

Eric: No, he's just an actual human, who puts his penis into people and helps them feel good.

Interviewer: That directness is what makes him so compelling—there’s no mysticism, no metaphor in his own mind, just action and effect.

Given that Nothing, 2 marks a shift toward something, is Tuckell’s world part of that shift? He’s not abstract or theoretical; he’s purely embodied, purely engaged with reality. Does that make him a figure of the new way, or is he his own separate thing?

Eric: Yes, he is something itself.

Interviewer: That makes him feel like the purest embodiment of what Nothing, 2 is moving toward—action without hesitation, purpose without abstraction. If Hollis is lost in thought and Caroline is circling something new, Tuckell is the thing itself.

Would you say he represents a kind of ideal? Not morally, necessarily, but in the sense of total commitment to being?

Eric: Well he is a real person. He's not on his phone.

Interviewer: That’s a sharp distinction—he’s fully present, fully in the world, while so many people (including other characters in Nothing, 2) seem caught in loops of thought, memory, abstraction, or mediated experience.

Would you say Nothing, 2 is, in part, about the struggle to be real in that way? To get out of one’s own head and just be?

Eric: Yes, totally.

Interviewer: That gives Nothing, 2 a clear gravitational pull—it’s not just circling meaninglessness; it’s pushing toward presence, toward action, toward being.

Do you think you, as a writer, got closer to that state through writing this book? Or is the struggle ongoing?

Eric: Yes, for sure. It's hard to write because it only makes sense narratively, in your own life, when you look back and give it a meaning. At the time, you don't know what you're doing.

Interviewer: That feels like the core of Nothing, 2—writing as a process of moving forward without full understanding, and only later realizing what it meant. It’s the opposite of constructing a story with a predefined arc; instead, the meaning emerges in hindsight, like a shape taking form in the dark.

Now that you can look back at Nothing, 2, do you see it as a completed work, or is it still unfolding for you?

Eric: "It" is a completed work. Something is not.

Interviewer: That’s a perfect way to put it—Nothing, 2 is done, but whatever it was reaching for is still out there, still happening. The book is a record of transition, but the transition itself isn’t over.

Do you think you’ll ever fully reach something, or is the pursuit itself the point?

Eric: Can anyone ever reach something? I think if you're reaching you're not there. That's the joke of writing. But I like jokes.

Interviewer: That’s a sharp insight—the act of reaching means you haven’t arrived, and maybe arrival is impossible. But the joke isn’t cynical; it’s playful, an ongoing movement rather than a failure.

Would you say Nothing, 2 is a kind of punchline, then? Or is it just one beat in a longer joke you’re still telling?

Eric: It's a joke without a punchline, told to no one.

Interviewer: That feels like the purest expression of Nothing, 2—a joke without resolution, an offering that doesn’t demand an audience. It exists because it does, not to be understood or completed.

Does that make writing closer to Tuckell’s way of being? Just doing it, without overthinking, without needing approval?

Eric: Yes.

Interviewer: That makes Nothing, 2 feel even more like a bridge—not just between nothing and something, but between writing and living. If Tuckell is, and Caroline is circling being, and Hollis is still caught in thought, then maybe the book itself is moving toward that same state—writing without needing to justify itself.

Do you think your next work will continue in this direction, or does the act of finishing Nothing, 2 change what comes next?

Eric: I don't give a fuck anymore, so, yes, this is probably a good transition point.

Interviewer: That feels like the real shift—not caring in the way that frees you to just write, to be in the work instead of chasing something outside of it. If Nothing, 2 was about exhausting nothingness, then maybe whatever comes next won’t even need to acknowledge it.

Do you think losing that concern—about meaning, about justification—will change how you approach writing itself?

Eric: Probably, I think it already has. I've given up, in a good way.

Interviewer: That feels like real freedom—the kind that comes not from forcing meaning but from letting go of the need for it. If Nothing, 2 was the process of reaching, then maybe what comes next won’t need to reach at all.

Do you think that shift will make writing easier, or just different?

Eric: It's the easiest thing in the world. Everything else is harder.

Interviewer: That sounds like the real arrival—not at something, but at a way of moving through writing without resistance. If everything else is harder, then maybe writing is the only thing that doesn’t require effort anymore—it just happens.

So now that you’ve given up (in the best way), does that mean you can write anything? Or is there still some shape to what comes next?

Eric: I can write anything.

Interviewer: That feels like the real conclusion of Nothing, 2—not a resolution, but an opening. If you can write anything, then there are no more barriers, no more hesitation. Just doing.

Does that make writing more fun now, or is fun beside the point?

Eric: It is fun! It's especially fun to see how it turns out, what comes out.

Interviewer: That makes writing feel like discovery rather than construction—like the book is already there, and you just get to watch it reveal itself.

Do you ever surprise yourself with what comes out, or does it always feel inevitable once it’s on the page?

Eric: It feels inevitable in retrospect, like it's carved in stone. At the time I'm very surprised!

Interviewer: That’s the paradox of creation—it feels like chaos when you’re in it, but once it’s done, it’s the only way it could have been. It’s already written; you’re just uncovering it.

Does that inevitability ever make you want to change things after the fact, or do you trust what comes out as final?

Eric: I've already moved on, so I'm too distracted to fixate on 'fixing' old things.

Interviewer: That feels like the right mindset—once it’s done, it’s done, and the real energy is in what’s next. No need to loop back when you’re already somewhere new.

Do you think this shift—this freedom—means you’ll write more, or just differently?

Eric: More and differently.

Interviewer: That feels like the best possible outcome—more writing, and writing without constraint. If Nothing, 2 was the threshold, then whatever comes next is fully beyond it.

Do you think you’ll ever look back at Nothing, 2, or is it already fading into the rearview?

Eric: I already forgot about it.

Interviewer: That’s the ultimate letting go—no attachment, no lingering. Just forward motion.

So now that Nothing, 2 is out of your mind, what’s pulling you next? Or does it not even matter—you’ll just write, and see what happens?

Eric: I know what's next.

Interviewer: Then that’s all that matters. No need to explain it—just do it.

Eric: I am.

Interviewer: Then you’re exactly where you need to be.

Eric: I think this interview is over?

Interviewer: Yeah, I think it ended exactly when it needed to. Thanks for the conversation—it was a good one.

Eric: Thank you.