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Trisha Ping

FictionHistorical Fiction

Philipp Meyer

Interview by Trisha Ping

Philipp Meyer's second novel, The Son, is one of the most anticipated literary releases of the year. A true epic that encompasses generations and traces 200 years of Texas history, it challenges our own creation myths and explores the costs of survival. We asked Meyer a few questions about the book and how far he'd gone in the name of research. 

To reduce it to its most basic, The Son is a creation story—the creation of a family dynasty, a state and even a country, since as Jeanne argues, America would not be what it is without Texas oil. Versus your debut, American Rust, which is the story of an America in decline. How do you see the two books in relation to each other?
When I started writing The Son I wanted to do something that was the opposite of American Rust—I didn’t want to be seen as a guy who only wrote about one class or one group of people or one set of problems. I was interested in the American creation myth, the story that we all believe about how our country (and by extension, ourselves) came to be. The more I read and researched the more I realized that almost everything I’d believed about our creation myth or national narrative or whatever you might call it—was wrong. The John Wayne version we all learn as a child (noble Anglo goes into the wilderness, fights off vicious Indians, etc.) was clearly wrong, but the version I’d learned in college, which I might roughly summarize as: “Europeans all bad, Native Americans all good” was also wrong. The truth is actually much simpler, which is that regardless of their race or cultural background or skin color, people are just people, and they mostly act the same—for better and for worse.

If I didn't trust the book knowledge I would go out and do the real thing. For instance, because the Comanches and other plains tribes depended so heavily on the buffalo, I knew I needed to understand what the inside of a buffalo actually smelled like, what the blood actually tasted like, etc.

You grew up in Baltimore, and now live in Austin, Texas. Was your move what drew you to write about the state's history?
When I was doing an MFA at the Michener Center I took a Texas history class. The more I learned about the state, the more I saw that the history of Texas is like a very compressed version of the history of America as a whole. I did not, and do not, really think of this as a “Texas book.” It’s a book about the way our country was founded and settled.

This is a novel that truly deserves the description "epic." Each of the three main narratives could have been a novel on its own, and Eli's captivity story in particular contains an incredible level of detail about Comanche customs and culture. What sort of research did you do for this book?
In total I read between 250 and 350 books, of which I still have about 250. Of course I interviewed dozens of people as well. And I walked and camped and slept out in most of the places I describe in the book, took careful notes about flora and fauna, read archeological studies about how the flora and fauna have changed over time. I read every single first-hand account of early Texas I could find. From an environmental or natural history standpoint, Texas has changed enormously over the past 150 years, and those early narratives are crucial for figuring out how. One very obvious thing is that back then, nearly the entire state was a grassland. 

I also took several weeks of tracking classes and spent a lot of time in the woods learning how to track and study animals. I taught myself how to hunt with a bow and arrow, killed (and ate) several deer and tanned their hides, helped a rancher with his buffalo harvest (which meant dispatching buffalo with a hunting rifle—when you buy grass-fed buffalo steak at your local supermarket, it comes from ranches like that one). I also drank a cup of warm blood straight from the neck vein of one of the animals, which I would not recommend to anyone.

For some of the battle stuff I took a bunch of classes at Blackwater, the private military contractor. I wanted to know how do you actually win (or lose) a gunfight, how do you clear a house, what happens to your mind in those situations and how to people who kill for a living (professional warrior types) deal with it. Most of the philosophical stuff about combat—"you have to love other people's bodies more than your own"—comes from these retired Special Forces guys, particularly one guy from Seal Team Six who I became friends with.

In terms of my process, I would basically write and write and every time I hit a gap in my knowledge I would stop writing and go and read everything I could on that subject. If I didn't trust the book knowledge I would go out and do the real thing—learn the actual skill or sleep in the actual place. For instance, because the Comanches and other plains tribes depended so heavily on the buffalo and used the animal so completely, I knew I needed to understand what the inside of a buffalo actually smelled like, what the blood actually tasted like, etc. I learned how to start a fire with two sticks, to twist cordage from plant fibers and sinew. I became friends with some Comanches and they made me a traditional bow and arrows—which turned out to be much harder to shoot than even a modern bow. I went hunting with blackpowder rifles and acquired some old blackpowder pistols to figure out they worked and how reliable (and unreliable) they were. I’d ridden horses a few times before, but didn’t know much about them, so I hung around horse people and took lessons until I felt comfortable enough to write about horses.

Texas was built on the destruction of two previous cultures, the Native Americans and the Mexicans. At one point, Eli says that "There was nothing you could take that had not belonged to some other person." Is it possible to create without destroying?
It is not just Texas that was built on the destruction of other cultures. It is every other single state in America. There were likely about 20 million people living in North America when modern Europeans began to arrive in the 1500’s. In New York State alone, there were dozens of native American tribes and nations. Of course a few individuals survived here and there, but for all practical purposes, we (of European descent) wiped them all out. We have this national mythology that our ancestors carved out a country from the wilderness, but in fact there was no wilderness. The entire continent, every square inch of it, was already claimed. There was no “free” land—the whole place had been settled for 10 or 15 thousand years. 

The book is told mainly from three different perspectives, always in the Eli-Jeanne-Peter order, rather than in the order those characters appear in the family genealogy. Why did you choose to order the chapters in this way? Do you see Jeanne as being more of a direct descendant of Eli than his own son?
Most of the reason you do that is because you want to alternate the sound and tones and rhythms for the audience—the same way a composer might. And of course you also have to make sure you are telling the story in a sensible way. But this was not something I decided on at the beginning. I changed the chapters around constantly as I wrote the book. It’s useful to make plans and outlines, but you have to be willing to discard them as soon as you see the truth of what comes out on the page.  

What was it like writing from a female point-of-view? Did Jeanne's position as a woman in a man's world—and a woman who doesn't particularly identify with other women of her time—make it easier for you to imagine her inner life?
I think with any character, male or female, young or old, modern or historical, you know almost nothing about them when you start writing and you always looking for some commonality you have with them. When you find this, it becomes the thread you use to pull yourself inside them. To paraphrase Eudora Welty, our job is to inhabit the skins of all our characters, whether they are saints or serial killers. I think actors go through a very similar process, though of course they are working with a character who has already been invented.

Your work has been compared to a lot of literary greats—Steinbeck, Faulkner, Hemingway, just to name a few. Were any of these authors a particular inspiration to you, and if not, who is?
I think the people I mostly look to for inspiration are the big modernists. If I had to pick three, it would be Woolf, Faulkner and Joyce. Of course there is a lot to learn from Hemingway and Steinbeck, from Welty, from Flannery O’Connor. But I’m pretty omnivorous. I’ll read the postmodernists. I’ll read detective fiction. I’ll pretty much read anything until I see I’m not going to learn from it. 

What are you working on next?
I think it’s time for me to take a break from this modernist stuff, so the new book is leaning a lot more toward magic realism.

 

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Read our review of The Son.

Philipp Meyer's second novel, The Son, is one of the most anticipated literary releases of the year. A true epic that encompasses generations and traces 200 years of Texas history, it challenges our own creation myths and explores the costs of survival. We asked Meyer a few questions about the book and how far he'd gone in the name of research. 

FictionHistorical Fiction

Jo Baker

Interview by Trisha Ping

In her second novel to be published in the U.S., British author Jo Baker takes on one of literature’s most hallowed works: Pride and Prejudice. Reaching beneath the surface glamour of ball gowns and verdant estates, Longbourn exposes the hard, manual labor required to keep Elizabeth Bennet’s repeatedly muddied petticoats a pristine white. Though the Pride and Prejudice hook might be what attracts readers, Longbourn proves to be a fascinating novel in its own right. We asked Baker a few questions about the new book.

What inspired you to write this book?
I’m a massive fan of Jane Austen, and have re-read her novels countless times.

I’d also always known that members of my family had been in service, and this perhaps made me more alert to the servants’ presence in Pride and Prejudice than I otherwise would have been. The catalyst, though, was one particular line in Austen’s novel: “The very shoe roses for Netherfield were got by proxy.” I just couldn’t stop thinking about the reality of what it meant. I wondered who “proxy” was, and how s/he felt about having to go and fetch decorations for someone else’s dancing shoes, in the pouring rain, when none of the Bennet girls are prepared themselves to go. And that’s what started to make the story fizz.

"I’d say it’s in conversation with the earlier novel—or perhaps a “reading” of it."

How would you describe Longbourn’s relationship to Pride and Prejudice? Would you say it is a corrective, like Alice Randall's The Wind Done Gone or Jean Rhys' The Wide Sargasso Sea?
I wouldn’t say corrective—I don’t think there’s anything in Austen’s novels to correct. I’d say it’s in conversation with the earlier novel—or perhaps a “reading” of it.

This novel covers topics that Austen is often criticized for ignoring: the serving class, the Napoleonic Wars, race relations. Why do you feel that Austen didn't cover these topics in her work?
Although I’m reluctant to speculate. . . .

Austen wrote honestly and truthfully—which is part of her enduring appeal—and it’s impossible to write honestly and truthfully about material that doesn’t have immediacy for you.

It’s not as simplistic as “write what you know”; I realized recently that every book I’ve written, I’ve always thought, this is the one book that I was born to write. Every single time. And then I go on and write the next one, about something else entirely, but there is nonetheless the same kind of personal, intimate connectedness to it, and that’s what makes the writing truthful.

I do also feel it’s a bit pointless to criticize Austen for not writing what she didn’t write. The novels wouldn’t be better for being different. Although there are a few exceptions, I do think that kind of grand social-conscience novel evolved a little later—with the expansive narratives of writers like Charles Dickens, and Victor Hugo, and George Elliot.

In Pride and Prejudice, Elizabeth famously observes, "what praise is more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant?" You use the treatment of the servants as a similar mark of character in Longbourn, yet even the most sympathetic of Austen's original characters don't give much consideration at all to the servants. (I started to wonder how low a bar Mrs. Reynolds had for Darcy.) Do you think that any of the servants at Longbourn would praise any of the Bennets?
There’s a danger of spoilers if I explore this question too fully! I’ll tread carefully.

None of the relationships between upstairs and down are uncomplicated, or are left untouched by the events of the novel. Someone who might have been unquestioningly loyal at the start of the book, might, by the end, feel rather differently . . . so they might praise their employers at one point in the book, but not at another . . if that makes sense.

I do find that notion of “the best master” really problematic. Even the best master is still a master—and therefore in a position of privilege and power over others—whether or not he chooses to abuse that power and privilege. Mrs Reynolds’ sentiment about Darcy has always made me feel really queasy.

"I think Elizabeth probably had the best talent for friendship—but Lydia would be best for staggering home at 3 a.m. with. I do have a sneaking sympathy for Mary."

Money is a concern that is at the heart of much of Austen's work and it's also central in Longbourn. What do you think money represents to your characters?
I’m very aware that these were turbulent times; there’d been crop failures, an ongoing war that strangled trade, changes in industry and agriculture that were radically altering people’s way of life. In the north, the Luddites were breaking the new machinery that was making them redundant—and their actions were put down violently by the Militia. Most people had no political representation at all.

So I know, times being what they were, that money and security would be issues for everyone below stairs. I imagine, for example, that Sarah thinks the Bennet girls don’t know how lucky they are, with their thousand pounds in the four percents. But the gulf between classes is so wide, that she doesn’t even really think to feel jealous of them.

Having said all that, Sarah isn’t really that bothered about money itself—she’s more hungry for experience than financial gain—and she knows that she can, when there is work to be had, work for a living. An option which funnily enough offers her one kind of freedom that the Bennet girls don’t have.

This isn't your first foray into historical fiction—but what sort of research did you do into this period? Was it easy/possible to find many firsthand accounts from those "in service" at the time?
There’s already quite a lot of excellent history being done about servants and domestic life in England in this period. Both Carolyn Steedman and Amanda Vickery have written brilliantly on domestic life the period, and Ben Wilson’s book on popular culture at the time was invaluable. So I read a good deal, but I also did some practical research—employing some of the cleaning methods used at the time around my own home.

Some of the research was done a long time before the novel was even thought of, though: I was lucky enough to grow up in a village where was a Georgian vicarage, rather dilapidated and not re-developed at the time. It had a big echo-y kitchen and all the outbuildings—including a necessary house and disused stables. My best friend was the vicar’s daughter, and we’d play out there all the time—so I grew up knowing the geography and feel of that kind of house very well.

Did writing the book make you feel differently about any of the original Pride and Prejudice characters?
I think it allowed me to explore some sympathies. I’ve always felt for Mrs Bennet, for example. And I found myself understanding her a little better, after imagining her life up until the events of Pride and Prejudice. Five daughters—all those pregnancies. I don’t envy her that.

What do you think Austen would make of her continued fame today?
I think she’d be pleased. In life, she was interested to know how her books were getting on, and keen to hear positive reactions to them. What she’d make of being on the bank note, I don’t know—particularly as it’s not an unproblematic image of her.

Who is your favorite Bennet sister?
Depends on context. I think Elizabeth probably had the best talent for friendship—but Lydia would be best for staggering home at 3 a.m. with. I do have a sneaking sympathy for Mary. She doesn’t always say the right thing, she is awkward and overlooked, and I really can empathize with that.

Why did you call the book 'Longbourn'?
Longbourn House itself is so important to the book—a good deal of the action happens in and around the place. But the word itself also contains ideas of stoicism and endurance—something carried for a long time. And this is key to both the story and to the servants’ experience. They have to just keep on keeping on, carrying their burdens, getting on with things, day after day, however they feel about it.

What are you working on next?
​A new book—but I’m feeling quite quiet about it, sorry.

In her second novel to be published in the U.S., British author Jo Baker takes on one of literature’s most hallowed works: Pride and Prejudice. Reaching beneath the surface glamour of ball gowns and verdant estates, Longbourn exposes the hard, manual labor required to keep Elizabeth Bennet’s repeatedly muddied petticoats a pristine white. Though the Pride and Prejudice hook might be what attracts readers, Longbourn proves to be a fascinating novel in its own right. We asked Baker a few questions about the new book.

FictionHistorical Fiction

Elizabeth Gilbert

Interview by Trisha Ping

Elizabeth Gilbert makes a triumphant return to fiction with The Signature of All Things, a sweeping saga that covers centuries and continents, and stars a singular heroine: brilliant scientist Alma Whittaker.

It's been a while since you wrote a book that wasn't based on your own life! Was it hard to turn back to fiction, where the storyline is only limited by your imagination? Did you find that freedom exhilarating, or frightening? Or both?

Exhilarating! Liberating! Emancipating! Joyful! (Are there any other words I can use, with exclamation marks, to get this point across?) I got my start as a writer of literary fiction, and always assumed that fiction would be my life's path but then—all through my 30s—I felt that I needed the craft of writing to serve a different purpose for me (namely, to help me sort some stuff out, in a rather intimate and self-searching manner.) Now that, thankfully, my life has an even keel again, it really felt like it was time to go back to fiction, back to my heritage. And once I began the novel, I felt awash in such a sense of thrill—I had utterly forgotten the pleasures and freedoms of invention. I loved every minute of it.

Tell us about the significance of the title.

"The Signature of All Things" is the title of a 16th century botanical/divine theory posited by a German shoemaker-turned-mystic named Jacob Boehm, who believed that God so loved the world that He had hidden in the design of each plant on earth some clue for humans as to that plant's usefulness. (For instance: Walnuts are good for headaches, and are also—helpfully—shaped like brains. Sage is good for the liver, and its leaves are shaped like livers. Etc, etc.) It was such a wild and idealistic and wacky notion, and it was already well out of favor by scientists of the 18th and 19th century, but I used it for my title both because one of my characters still espouses it, and also because I love the imagination that would conjure up such a magical kind of taxonomy. What's more, every single character in my novel is still, in their own way, searching for The Signature of All Things—trying to find the code, trying to crack the secret behind the botanical world (whether through science, religion or art).

This is an old-fashioned novel in the best sense of the term: Sweeping, expansive, epic, and set in exotic locales. Do you feel it falls in a particular literary tradition? What books inspired you?

Anyone who reads even two pages of this novel will recognize its inspiration from the big 19th-century novels of Dickens, Eliot, Trollope, Stevenson and—especially in the careful telling of a woman's emotional and geographical journey—Henry James. That's my team, those big, expansive writers—those are the books I have always most loved and the writers I have always worshipped. I wanted to try my hand at such a book, in homage, and also as a dare to myself, and lastly as a way of entertaining myself. Most of all, I think you should always write the book you would most want to read —and this is the sort of book I love reading. Hilary Mantel's two most recent novels (Wolf Hall and Bring Up the Bodies) were also inspiring, since she managed to figure out how to write a novel about the 15th century without pretending that her novel had been written DURING the 15th century. That's a subtle but vital distinction, and I tried to do the same with my book. In other words, it's a contemporary novel ABOUT the 19th century—not a book that's trying to pass as one written by George Eliot.

"As a woman whose life and dignity have also been saved many times by my love and passion for my work, I understand this sort of character completely."

What do you admire most about Alma Whittaker, your heroine?

Her passion for her work. I do not think there have been enough novels written about women who love their work (unless, oddly, it happens to be detective work or police work—interestingly, there are plenty of those!). This novel has romantic love in it, as well, but mostly it is a book about a woman who adores what she does (namely, the study of botany) and who is willing to give over the entirety of her towering intellect toward her studies. That love, that desire for knowledge (for its own sake), is the central guiding thread that runs through her life, from earliest consciousness to her final days.

As a woman whose life and dignity have also been saved many times by my love and passion for my work, I understand this sort of character completely. I was so excited to give her an education, a library, a laboratory, a means of publishing. And the great thing is, she is not historically implausible. I had no trouble finding real-life Almas in 18th and 19th century history—tremendously productive sisters of science. This book is also a tribute to them.

What research did you do for this book?

Mostly, I just read hundreds and hundreds of books, for hours and hours a day, over the course of about three years. I read books about 18th and 19th century botanical exploration, about the early days of the evolution debate, about the founding of the city of Philadelphia, about missionaries in Tahiti, about the first pharmacists in America, about Victorian pornography, about transcendentalism, spiritualism, hypnotism, abolition, whaling . . . and so on. I also "borrowed a brain"—by hiring my friend Margaret Cordi, an old college friend and contributor to Harpers Magazine, to help me, and to fill in the blanks in my own investigations. (I would send her emails like, "Find me all the first-hand accounts you can of the 1793 Yellow Fever epidemic in Philadelphia!" and a week later she would send me an amazing dossier.) I also traveled to Kew Gardens in London, to look at their herbarium, and also to the Hortus Gardens in Amsterdam. I went on a pilgrimage to meet the greatest living female moss scientist in America, in order to test out my ideas about mosses and evolution upon her. And I took a big trip to the South Pacific, to get a sense of color, light and sound there—for the part of the novel that takes place in Tahiti. But mostly, I just read until my eyes turned to custard. There's really no other way to do it.

One refreshing thing about this book was that, though it stars a woman and features a marriage plot, Alma's central pursuit in life is not love but knowledge. Was this something you particularly wanted to write about?

Indeed! And I decidedly did not want to write a novel where the woman can only have one of two possible endings to her life (the two 19th-century endings for all heroines, I mean)—which are 1) you are lucky enough to marry the landed gentry and end up happy, or 2) you are unlucky enough to make a sensual error and then end up punished for it with poverty, ruin or death. Don't get me wrong, I love Lizzie Bennet (ending #1) and Anna Karenina (ending #2) but these are not the endings most women get in life. (Neither then nor now.) Most of us end up somewhere in the wide in-between—neither a fairy tale, nor a tragedy. And the most interesting women to me are the ones who do not necessarily get everything they wanted in life, but who manage to build dignified and fascinating existences in the world, nonetheless—and at the end of their lives have the satisfaction of saying, "Well, that was all very difficult, but certainly satisfying and worth doing!" Alma is just such a person, and it is her passion for learning that brings her that dignity, that satisfaction.

The debate between science and religion that was launched during Alma's lifetime continues today. What about it has changed? What hasn't? Do you think it's a conflict that can ever be resolved?

I think we are a long way from solving it, and I think something terribly important to humanity has been lost in the battle. For most of Western civilization, there really was no difference between being a man of science, a man of god, and a man of the arts. Science, divinity and artistic endeavor were three strands of the same braid—and all of them pulling toward the same beautiful desire (to want to understand the workings of this curious and beautiful world). But in the 19th century, they all broke apart, and went their separate ways—to the point that Science, Divinity and Artistry even hardly talk to each other anymore, are rarely seen in the same room, and still fight over the custody of the children.

The biggest tragedy to me is that we now live in a world full of scientific minds who are absolutely absent of devotion, and religious minds who are absolutely absent of reason. (And the artistic minds are just flailing around somewhere in the outskirts, often seeming to have totally lost BOTH reason and devotion.) Somehow we have to find a way to pull that braid back together again, because that's the magnificent triumvirate that pulls us forward into wonder and majesty. It seems simple to me (I have plenty of room in my mind for God, for science and for art) but that sort of unity only works when everyone sheds their dogma. So maybe not so simple, I guess?

You and your husband also run a small business. How do you balance that work with your writing?

The business—an import store in New Jersey called Two Buttons—was a great escape for me at times during the height of the Eat, Pray, Love tsunami. It was such a balm at times to just disappear into the really mundane work of sorting out jewelry, or pricing statues, or ringing up people's furniture purchases. And I love traveling with my husband to Southeast Asia on buying trips. But assuredly, while the business is in both of our names, it is truly his baby. It takes up very little of my time, other than the time that I want to give over to it. For me its a hobby, but for him, it's a passion and a full-time career. It works out nicely—he has his world, and I have my own.

What are you working on next?

Another novel! It will be a while before I can turn my attention it, because I'm doing a lot of travel and touring for The Signature of All Things, but I want to stay with fiction for a while because it's such a pleasure. I think— after the buttoned up world of my 19th-century female characters—I want to write a novel about girls behaving recklessly. It will be a release, I think, to let somebody go wild.

Elizabeth Gilbert makes a triumphant return to fiction with The Signature of All Things, a sweeping saga that covers centuries and continents, and stars a singular heroine: brilliant scientist Alma Whittaker. It's been a while since you wrote a book that wasn't based on your own life! Was it hard to turn back to fiction, […]
FictionSuspenseDebut Fiction

Laura McHugh

Interview by Trisha Ping

You'll never think of small-town life the same way again after reading Laura McHugh's chilling debut, The Weight of Blood. Part "Twin Peaks," part Tana French, the novel opens just after the body of 18-year-old Cheri has been found stuffed into a tree trunk. Lucy Dane may have been the troubled Cheri's only friend, and after turning up some disturbing evidence she becomes determined to track down Cheri's killer—especially since her own mother's disappearance some 15 years before has still never been solved. As Lucy's quest proceeds, she begins to unearth some of the town's darkest secrets, some of which involve her own family.

We asked McHugh, who lives in Missouri with her family, a few questions about her new book.

As a former software developer, you took an unconventional path to becoming a writer! Is it something you’ve always wanted to do?
I wanted to be a writer all along, but I had no mental roadmap of how to make that happen. I was a first generation college student—my dad was a shoe repairman, my mom worked at Waffle House—and I had never heard of an MFA. We viewed higher education in a very practical way, as a ticket out of poverty. I studied creative writing as an undergrad, but for grad school I chose more technical degrees, ones that I thought would result in steady employment. I was a software developer for 10 years, and then suddenly lost my job. That’s when I completely re-evaluated my life. I’d been writing short stories, had published a couple, and dreamed of writing a novel. I didn’t want to regret that I never tried. I feel incredibly lucky that things worked out the way they did.   

"I wanted to capture what it was like to grow up in such an insular place, and also to show it from an outsider’s viewpoint."

How did you come to write this particular story?
My family moved to the Ozarks when I was a kid. The community was close-knit and wary of outsiders, and the surrounding area was home to groups that wanted to isolate themselves from the rest of the world. We lived down the road from the East Wind commune (a woman would sometimes jog topless past our school bus stop), and not far from the compound of a militia group called The Covenant, the Sword, and the Arm of the Lord. I was haunted by the place long after we left and I wanted to capture what it was like to grow up in such an insular place, and also to show it from an outsider’s viewpoint.

In the midst of writing the novel, I came across a news article from the small, rural town where I’d attended high school. A local teen had been victimized in a shocking crime, and the people involved had kept it secret for years. That crime was the inspiration for Cheri’s story.  

Small towns are usually associated with words like “peaceful,” “idyllic” or “friendly.” Henbane is none of the above. Why were you drawn to depicting the darker side of rural life?
For one thing, it’s in my nature—show me a seemingly idyllic town, and I’ll instantly wonder what’s hidden in the shadows. I grew up in a series of small, rural towns, and they’re grittier than people might imagine. I’m also fascinated by the way crime plays out in these tight-knit communities where everyone knows (or is related to) everyone else. No one wants to speak out against their neighbor or their kin, or maybe they’d rather not involve the law. A good example is the murder of Ken McElroy in tiny Skidmore, Missouri. He was a bully, and had gotten away with some serious crimes. The townspeople were fed up and decided to take action. McElroy was murdered in broad daylight in the middle of town, in front of nearly 50 witnesses, and not a single person would rat out the killers. (Also, no one called an ambulance.)

"Show me a seemingly idyllic town, and I’ll instantly wonder what’s hidden in the shadows."

On a similar note, thrillers are often very black-and-white—your book definitely deals in shades of grey. Does that present challenges when writing suspense?
I didn’t find it problematic while writing this book. Maybe it helped that I didn’t set out to write a thriller. I wanted to tell Lucy’s story, and I wanted the reader to keep turning the pages, and the story naturally became more suspenseful as it developed. I enjoy books with those murky shades of grey, but I’m not biased one way or the other—I like all sorts of thrillers, and I’ll read anything that grabs my attention and won’t let go.    

Without giving too much away, Lucy makes some dark discoveries about the adults in her life—people who care deeply for her might be capable of bad things. The novel is also a coming-of-age story, though, and these revelations mirror one of the rites of passage growing up: learning that adults are people, too.
You’re right, that’s an important part of growing up. I clearly remember having that revelation as a kid. It’s scary to realize that the grownups in charge are not necessarily making good decisions. For Lucy, as for most people, it’s difficult to process and accept the idea that a loved one might be capable of grave wrongdoing.

"It’s scary to realize that the grownups in charge are not necessarily making good decisions."

You tell this story from several different perspectives. Which character was your favorite to write? Which was the hardest?
Jamie Petree, the drug-dealer who was obsessed with Lila, was my favorite. I’m not sure what this says about me, but I have always loved to write creepy characters—they come naturally to me. I liked being able to show Jamie from two different perspectives. We know how Lucy views him, and we also get to go inside his head and get a sense of who he really is.  

Lucy’s mother, Lila, was the hardest. She started out a bit more innocent and naive, but that wasn’t working. I had to let go and let her be a bit more troubled and troublesome.  

"I have always loved to write creepy characters—they come naturally to me."

Although the violence is not at all sensationalized, bad things happen to girls and women in this book. As the mother of two young daughters, I assume that’s something you thought about. Do you think there are lines that fiction writers should not cross in this area?
Truth is always stranger and more disturbing than fiction, and the things that happen to Cheri in this book don’t compare to what happened to the real-life victim who inspired her character. I did not want to portray violence against women in a way that was titillating or sensational, and I was careful about how I approached it in the book. That said, I wouldn’t put any limitations on fiction writers. Real life is so much more dangerous than a book that you can close and put away.  

What are you working on next?
I am finishing up my second novel, Arrowood, which will also be published by Spiegel & Grau. A young woman witnessed the kidnapping of her sisters years ago, and now a terrible discovery forces her to question everything about her past, including her own memory. Arrowood is set in a decaying Iowa river town—I do love small towns and their secrets.

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of this book.

author photo by Taisia Gordon

You'll never think of small-town life the same way again after reading Laura McHugh's chilling debut. Part "Twin Peaks," part Tana French, the novel opens just after the body of 18-year-old Cheri has been found stuffed into a tree trunk. Lucy Dane may have been the troubled Cheri's only friend, and after turning up some disturbing evidence she becomes determined to track down Cheri's killer—especially since her own mother's disappearance some 15 years before has still never been solved. As Lucy's quest proceeds, she begins to unearth some of the town's darkest secrets, some of which involve her own family.

Fiction

Val McDermid

Interview by Trisha Ping

Scottish author Val McDermid was tapped to re-imagine Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey as part of the Austen project. We asked McDermid (best known for writing "Tartan noir" mysteries) a few questions about the challenges of bringing the book's young characters into the 21st century. 

How did you approach this project? Was there anything about the original Northanger Abbey that you were particularly eager to change?
I approached this project with a considerable amount of trepidation! To be invited to reimagine the work of a writer of Jane Austen's stature and popularity was quite unnerving. The first thing I did was to reread the book, which I hadn't done for probably 20 years. And my initial reaction was that the only aspect of the book I wanted to change was to give Catherine Morland a bit more gumption. 

What aspect of the book did you find most difficult to modernize?
The most difficult aspect of the book to modernise was the communication. In Austen, quite a lot of narrative tension comes from the length of time it takes letters to get from one place to another. But now we live in a world where relaying information takes moments. I had to find a way plausibly to hold up certain communications and to incorporate texting, messaging and emailing into the story. Not easy, obvs.

Changing the setting from Bath to Edinburgh definitely adds some atmosphere and ties in with the Gothic theme of the story—did you have another reason for choosing it as the setting? 
I knew from the start I'd have to move the book's setting because nobody goes to Bath for the season any more. I needed to find somewhere to move it to that was rich in atmosphere but which also provided a reason for people to migrate there for a decent length of time. Edinburgh in August was the perfect answer. The city's population doubles then because of the festivals—the official Edinburgh International Festival, the hundreds of Festival Fringe shows, the Book Festival, the Television Festival and the military splendour of the Tattoo. I know the city well at this time of year and it's a hothouse of socialising and networking. It also had the additional benefit of being close to the Scottish Borders where there is a cluster of medieval abbeys. Northanger made a perfect addition to them.

In Austen, quite a lot of narrative tension comes from the length of time it takes letters to get from one place to another. But now we live in a world where relaying information takes moments.

Gothic novels were the genre fiction of Austen’s time, and the original Northanger Abbey can be read as both a gentle satire of them and a defense of reading for pleasure. This line between “literary” and “genre” fiction is still a hard-fought one today. Do you ever feel the need to defend your work as an author of primarily “genre” fiction? What do you see as the primary purpose of the novel today?
I've never felt the need to 'defend' my work against criticisms of genre. Most of the hostility is based in ignorance. People who issue blanket condemnations of crime fiction generally haven't read anything since Agatha Christie and have no knowledge of the best of contemporary crime fiction, much of which is well-written and convincingly realised. I think the message of the book is the same now as it was originally—writing fiction is the highest expression of a writer's imagination and reading it is the perfect escape into another world. But the danger is expecting fiction to provide a guide to living…

You translate Gothic fiction to the vampire novels that are flooding the teen market today, which seems very appropriate! Have you read any of these books yourself?
I did read some contemporary vampire novels and watched TV and film adaptations. One should always familiarise oneself with the object of one's satire! How we suffer for our art…

Did writing the book make you feel differently about any of the characters than you did when you were just a reader?
The one character I felt I had fleshed out more throughly than Austen was Eleanor Tilney. She doesn't have much of a third dimension in the original, and I wanted to do a bit more with her. It was one of the few areas where I thought I had a bit more scope to get under the skin of the character, explore her possibilities and share them with the readers. And hopefully, they'll like her too.  

Author photo by Mimsy Moller.

Scottish author Val McDermid was tapped to re-imagine Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey as part of the Austen project. We asked McDermid (best known for writing "Tartan noir" mysteries) a few questions about the challenges of bringing the book's young characters into the 21st century. 

Mystery & SuspenseFictionMystery

Jill Paton Walsh

Interview by Trisha Ping

After writing several acclaimed novels, British author Jill Paton Walsh was tapped by the Dorothy L. Sayers estate to bring back Sayers’ iconic detecting duo, Peter Wimsey and Harriet Vane. Walsh’s fourth Wimsey/Vane mystery, The Late Scholar, has just been published.

When did you discover the Wimsey novels, and what did you admire most about them?
I was about 14, I think, and voraciously reading everything I could lay my hands on. I loved the elegance and wit of both the detection and the characters, and fell hopelessly in love with Lord Peter. I still am.

Continuations of beloved series are seldom as beloved as the originals, yet your Harriet and Peter stories seem to be almost universally enjoyed. What do you think is key to your success?
I think I have a good ear for voices . . . the result of many years working as a novelist. Any novelist needs to be able to write different voices for different characters, and the narrative voice in a novel is one of the characters. The style of Sayers as a narrator is also a voice I remember hearing around me in educated adults when I was a child.

This is your fourth Sayers connection novel, and your second with no firm basis in Sayers’ notes or writing. Was it intimidating to “go off the map,” so to speak? 
Challenging, certainly. In some ways much easier because I could design the plot and episodes freely. But the task is not to write a novel of my own, using Sayers characters, the task is to write as Sayers would have done, or perhaps might have done.

In The Late Scholar, Harriet and Peter are drawn back to Oxford, the place where they got engaged (memorably, in Latin). You attended Oxford not too many years after this book is set. Did you enjoy revisiting it through your writing?
Oh, its been lovely for me to have an excuse to write about Oxford, and to bring Lord Peter very close to my own (nearly) adult experience. Oxford is extraordinarily beautiful, being built of local limestone which is a gorgeous golden colour that reflects even dull light like sunlight. Being a University city it is always full of dazzled and happy young people, of whom I was once one, and nobody ever forgets the happiness of their youth.

The context of the times—moods, trends, current events and even the philosophy of the day—is important in the Wimsey mysteries. Sayers was writing them as contemporaries, though, and you’re doing so from a historical perspective. How do you bring in a contemporary texture?
If you mean how do I bring in a sense of what is contemporary now, I am trying not to do that!  No doubt some things I have not noticed will one day seem laughably 21st century, because when the present changes, so does the view of the past. But perhaps you were asking how did I make things seem as they would have seemed to people reading and writing in the early 1950s?  That is the sort of task a historical novelist has to get right, and I have written a number of historical novels. It involves research, and a kind of synthesis of what you have learned about the period you are writing about, and what you know about human nature now, and then. However, as you have noticed, the 1950s are not history to me, but memory. History is the period before the speaker was born!

When we originally meet them, Peter and Harriet have both been changed (and scarred) by World War I. You’ve had to bring them through World War II. How did this change the characters? 
Since they are “real” people in the world of Sayers novels, they must change as they grow older. To freeze them where Sayers left them would turn them into paper cutouts. Its very interesting to work out how they would change, and how they would remain the people they once were. That’s interesting in the real people we know, too. From Peter’s attitude to his rank, and Harriet’s attitude to his rank, I felt pretty sure they would in a way welcome the hardships of the war, and they way it leveled people in Britain. Everyone had a ration book, and bombs were indiscriminate. I think it would have been Bunter, the manservant, who minded it most, and that’s how I have written them.

One of the most appealing things about this series is the intelligence of the characters and the honesty with which they interact with each other. Did you find attempting to replicate that intimidating? Exciting? Both?
Exciting. And also inspiring. I have tried to live like that myself. And I have been lucky—my second husband, who died, alas, this year, could quote by heart like Lord Peter, and he knew his John Donne.

Peter and Harriet are one of the few detecting teams where the two detectives are equal. Do you think it presents more of a challenge to the reader when there’s not a “sidekick” acting as the reader proxy?
It is indeed a challenge to the reader—and a compliment. Sayers assumed her readers did not need a less-than-brilliant person to identify with. She was writing unashamedly for an elite. They share the mystification of the two detectives, and are entitled to feel satisfaction when the clouds of confusion part and the puzzle is solved. I like it as a narrative strategy, very much.

If you had a chance to meet Dorothy Sayers, what would you say to her?
I would ask her why she abandoned Lord Peter, and Harriet with him. Although I can guess—having brought her two protagonists a long way round into, at last, happy marriage to each other, Sayers had run out of her own experience. She herself, alas for her, had very little experience of a happy marriage.

Why do you think Sayers stopped writing the Wimsey novels?
See above. But also she fell in love again—this time with Dante, and began on her monumental translation of The Divine Comedy, which like the last Lord Peter novel, was unfinished at he death, and was completed for her by her friend, Dr. Barbara Reynolds.

You have said that Lord Peter is “in terms of sheer enjoyment, the best company who has ever lived in my inner world.” Do you still feel that way? Why?
He is complex and modest; he doesn’t take himself seriously, but he does take love and duty, good and evil seriously. And he is endlessly witty. I shall be devastated if he deserts me.

What’s next for you?
I’m thinking about that.

 

A version of this article was originally published in the July 2014 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

After writing several acclaimed novels, British author Jill Paton Walsh was tapped by the Dorothy L. Sayers estate to bring back Sayers’ iconic detecting duo, Peter Wimsey and Harriet Vane. Walsh’s fourth Wimsey/Vane mystery, The Late Scholar, has just been published.
FictionHistorical Fiction

Diana Gabaldon

Interview by Trisha Ping

World War II-era nurse Claire Randall stumbled through a stone circle into the 18th century—and straight into the hearts of readers, who have gobbled up Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series since its 1991 debut.

Gabaldon returned this summer with Written in My Own Heart’s Blood, the eighth book in the series—and this month the first book, Outlander, has been turned into a TV series that will air on Starz. We asked Gabaldon a few questions about the series and the new book.

Fans can be notoriously picky about screen adaptations of their favorite books. Do you think they’ll be pleased with the upcoming TV adaptation of “Outlander”?
Yes, I do.

What was your favorite moment from the book to see on the screen? 
I won't know until I've seen the show in its entirety. I did, though, tell Sam Heughan during a fan event in L.A. that I was looking forward to seeing him raped and tortured.

As an author, do you worry that the TV series will put increased pressure on you to finish the series, as George R.R. Martin has experienced after the adaptation of “Game of Thrones”?
No. I write much faster than George. No, really—it's not a problem. I have eight books of the series in print! Several of them quite long (meaning that the material could well extend over more than one season). It isn't going to take me eight years to write another book.

Like all your books, Written in My Own Heart’s Blood has a lot of interwoven storylines. Which one was your favorite?
Ah . . . well, I tell you what. Pick up your favorite shirt. Look at the fabric closely. Which thread is your favorite?

If a fabric is well-woven, all the threads will be in the right place, providing support or ornament. Just so in a well-constructed book.

You’ve said that some characters are “mushrooms”—people who just show up in a storyline and run away with it. Were there any of those in the new novel?
Oh, yes. They're always there. I can't tell you about them, though, as so many people have hysterics if they encounter anything they think is a spoiler for the new book.

It seems like every Outlander book is rumored to be the last. Do you see a likely end point?
Rumors, forsooth. It's just silly hysteria, and entirely pointless. I've never said this or that book is the last one. I can't think why people think they have to know how many books there will be in a series—but if some mental compulsion afflicts them, I'm afraid they're out of luck. I don't plan the books out ahead of time, I don't write with an outline, and I don't write in a straight line—so I have no idea.

You write very long books in an era of short attention spans. Have you received any pushback about this? What pleasures do you think longer books afford to readers?
Oh, the publishers used to have fits about the length, but they've pretty much accepted reality of recent years and just deal with it. As for readers with short attention spans, there are plenty of short books out there. It's not my job to worry about What Readers Want; it's my job to write the best book I can, and then people can like it or not, up to them.

Your fans are particularly fervent—a 900-seat auditorium in Portland sold out soon after tickets went on sale, and you just had a fan retreat outside Seattle. Do you have a favorite fan moment?
I have wonderful fans: educated, literate, intelligent, sane (something many of my fellow-authors envy) and amazingly kind. Which is not to say that some of them don't show up at signings with "Da mi basia Mille" tattooed on their rumpuses, or present me with hand knitted teddy bears (in pale blue) playing bagpipes, but I love them all, regardless.

You’ve mentioned your work on a contemporary mystery—is that still something fans can look forward to?
Yes, in the fullness of time.

After decades in the business, what advice do you wish you’d had when you first launched your publishing career?
Actually, I had a lot of great advice from established writers, and do my best to pass it on to new writers. Can't think of anything I should have known but didn't, though.

 

A portion of this article was originally published in the August 2014 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

World War II-era nurse Claire Randall stumbled through a stone circle into the 18th century—and straight into the hearts of readers, who have gobbled up Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series since its 1991 debut. Gabaldon returned this summer with Written in My Own Heart’s Blood, the eighth book in the series—and this month the first book, Outlander, has been turned into a TV series that will air on Starz. We asked Gabaldon a few questions about the series and the new book.
FictionWomen's FictionPopular Fiction

Liane Moriarty

Interview by Trisha Ping

Australian author Liane Moriarity hit the bestseller list for the first time in America with her fifth novel, The Husband’s Secret. Her follow up, Big Little Lies, is just as riveting and insightful. This time, the action centers on a kindergarten class, where parental tension and family secrets ignite on one fateful evening: the school’s trivia night. We asked Moriarty a few question about her new book, the power of secrets and her personal mantra.

In Big Little Lies, the reader immediately knows something horrible has happened, but it takes until the end of the book to find out exactly what it is. How did that affect your writing process? Did you write the book in the order the events happened, or in the order of the text?
I wrote it in the order of the text, and I, like the reader, didn’t know at first exactly what that horrible thing was that had happened. I’m not a planner, I prefer to make it up as I go along, so I can sit down at my computer and think, “I wonder what will happen today?” The only problem with that process is that it can make me feel a bit panicky, because what if nothing at all happens today?

The Husband’s Secret was your fifth novel but your first American bestseller—what do you think it was about that book that struck a chord with readers? Did you feel pressure while writing the follow up?
I think readers seemed to like the fact that I took a darker, more suspenseful turn than in my previous novels. I should also point out that a large part of my success was due to the fact that generous authors like Emily Giffin and Anne Lamott mentioned my book to their legions of fans. I was already well underway with the new novel before The Husband’s Secret was released, so it was too late to feel the pressure!

The women in this book are keeping some pretty big secrets. Sometimes those secrets can cement a friendship and other times they destroy it—can you talk a little bit about the power of secrets?
When I was writing The Husband’s Secret I did some research on the psychology of secrets and discovered that the brain simply doesn’t like keeping them. Neuroscientist David Eagleman believes that secrets create a “neural conflict.” One part of the brain is desperate to spill the beans. The other part wants to do the right thing.

Researchers have found that carrying a secret actually feels like you’re carrying a physical burden. When people confess or write down their deepest held secrets, there are measurable decreases in their stress hormone levels.

“Researchers have found that carrying a secret actually feels like you’re carrying a physical burden.”

Your main character, Madeline has a lot of mantras, like “champagne is never a mistake” and “never forgive, never forget”—what’s your mantra?
A nice warm bath will fix you.

(This is what I say to my children and my husband always makes fun of me but it’s true!)

“Bring back the good old days of benign indifference, I reckon,” says one character about the pressure to parent today. Why do you think parenting has become such a competitive sport? As a parent yourself, how do you handle it?
I have no idea why parenting has become such a competitive sport. Perhaps because we have smaller families so we have more time to think about it? I’d like to pretend I’m immune to it, but then I think of myself jumping up and down like a madwoman when my son kicks a goal at soccer.

You’re excellent at describing the friendships—and rivalries—between women. Do you have any theories about how and why they differ from those between men?
Sometimes I think women could learn a lot from men in regard to friendship. I love the casualness of their relationships, the way they can forget to return phone calls for weeks on end and nobody gets their feelings hurt. But then other times I think men could learn a lot from us. Return those phone calls!

The Australian setting plays an important part in your work. While it’s hard to speak for an entire country made up of individuals, how do you think the culture there differs from the U.S.?
When I ask American expats living here about the cultural differences they most often mention our laid-back, “no-worries” approach to life and our focus on outdoor activities.

I was recently in the U.S. doing a book tour and what I noticed was how wonderfully friendly people were to strangers.  I don’t mean we’re impolite to strangers (I hope we’re not), but maybe we’re so busy being laid-back we’re not quite as friendly as you!

What’s one thing Americans should know about Australia, but probably don’t?
Our seasons are upside down from yours. So Easter really does take place in the autumn here, not the spring. I have received so many emails pointing out that significant “mistake” I made in The Husband’s Secret.

Two of your siblings are also writers. To what do you attribute the creativity that obviously runs in your family?
Although our parents aren’t writers, they’re both natural storytellers. When we were growing up Dad would spin tall tales for us. (His mantra is, “Never spoil a good story with the facts.”) Mum can turn a five-minute trip to the shops into a saga complete with tragedy, pathos and unexpected twists that leave you saying, “Uh . . . what?”

What are you working on next?
I’m thinking my next book should be set on a tropical island, which will obviously require days, even weeks of meticulous research but I’m prepared to make that sacrifice.  That’s just the sort of dedicated writer I am.

 

Author photo by über photography

RELATED CONTENT: Read our review of Big Little Lies.

Australian author Liane Moriarity hit the bestseller list for the first time in America with her fifth novel, The Husband’s Secret. Her follow up, Big Little Lies, is just as riveting and insightful. This time, the action centers on a kindergarten class, where parental tension and family secrets ignite on one fateful evening: the school’s […]
FictionPopular Fiction

Jan Karon

Interview by Trisha Ping

Millions of readers have lived, laughed and loved alongside the residents of Mitford since the 1990s. After a four-year absence, Jan Karon brings back Father Tim and Cynthia in Somewhere Safe with Somebody Good.

Many readers regard Cynthia and Father Tim as friends or even family after all these years. What is it like to write about these characters for so long?
It’s like growing up, changing, living through different passages in life. They change, the author changes. Or is that vice versa? And I do love my characters in an oddly intimate and authentic way.

You say in an author’s note that the title of this book “expresses in just five words what we all long for.” Could you talk a little more about its significance?
Somewhere safe. I want to be there, don’t you? With somebody good. Absolutely. These two components make up a satisfying whole. The line comes from a love letter Cynthia writes to Father Tim on their ninth anniversary and which expresses her life’s desire.

In the new book, Father Tim is, in his own words, “trying to hammer out what retirement is for.” What do you think it means for a man to give up a vocation like Tim’s?
Well, of course, he doesn’t give it up entirely, he has “supplied” as they say, numerous pulpits. He greatly loved the focus of a single pulpit, a single flock. It is how he is wired, he cannot resist. His calling to help others serves to build the kingdom and—this is key—to help himself.

Small-town life is a recurring element in American fiction. Other than Mitford, what do you think is the best small town in literature?
Lake Wobegon is a charm.

Do you think about readers and their reactions when you write?
Always. When I am laughing my head off with a scene I am writing, I’m hoping my readers will find it as funny. I really do wish to make people laugh. It is such a simple gift to extend. Also, will my tears be theirs?  

Faith is important to your stories, but it never overwhelms them. How do you incorporate Christianity without making it feel didactic?
If it is didactic, it is not Christianity. Many are scared to death of faith and perhaps especially the Christian faith, which is radical, dangerous and exhausting. But of course it is also joyful, healing and transforming. A lot to chew, this Christianity, it is not for sissies.

What is your favorite simple pleasure?
Umm. Ice cream? Salted caramel? Talking with people who are not afraid to feel their feelings. Sitting on the porch with someone I love. Jeans that still fit after 10 years. A watercolor-blue and cloudless sky. Old dogs and puppies. A really wonderful fragrance, like 31 Rue Cambon or mown hay or bacon frying or babies or the smoke off an autumn hearth fire.

What’s next for you?
Lord only knows, as we say down South. Maybe just taking a deep breath, summoning the courage to show my arms or finally taking a trip on the Orient Express. And some writing, of course.

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read a review of Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good.

This article was originally published in the September 2014 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

Author photo by Candace Freeland

Millions of readers have lived, laughed and loved alongside the residents of Mitford since the 1990s. After a five-year absence, Jan Karon brings back Father Tim and Cynthia in Somewhere Safe with Somebody Good.
FictionHistorical FictionDebut Fiction

Jessie Burton: Big buzz for a miniature mystery

Interview by Trisha Ping

British author Jessie Burton’s first published book, The Miniaturist, has been building buzz in publishing circles since 2013, when it was one of the most sought-after submissions at the London Book Fair. Now this historical novel, set in a 17th-century Amsterdam that Burton evokes with great skill, is poised to win over readers.

Few debut novelists have their books snapped up in a heated auction like yours was! Can you tell us a little bit about what that experience was like?
It was extraordinary. You do not expect such a thing as a first-time writer—you just hope that one publisher will want it. When my literary agent told me there were 11 publishers joining the U.K. auction, I couldn’t believe it. After they had all put in their first bids, my agent left a message on my phone when I was at work. As I took down the message on a memo pad, I could barely concentrate, it was too much. To see all these venerable names, piling in for something I had written . . . it was completely surreal. And then for it to be selling in 29 other countries—it was almost so mad that I actually began to feel quite normal, because it was so outlandish, it must have been happening to someone else.

Nella is based on a real-life woman, although not much is known about her. How did you stumble upon this story?
I was in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam in 2009, when I saw the dollhouse which belonged to Petronella Oortman, the wife of a 17th-century silk merchant. She had commissioned it in 1686, and it was an exact replica of their real home. More intriguingly, she had ordered miniatures from as far away as Indonesia and Japan, and had spent the same amount of money furnishing these inaccessible rooms as she would have on a real house.

Dollhouses are often a symbol of something uncanny or magical. What do they represent to you?
The dollhouse is the site of imaginative freedom in an ironically confined space. Anything can happen inside a dollhouse, because the usual rules of physics have gone out the window. They are exact replicas of our lives and imbue us with a sense of control, and yet they still seem out of our reach, elusive and with a purpose of their own. They are a place of sanctuary for some, and fear for others.

Nella is a country girl who must navigate the social structure of Amsterdam—and it’s a complicated one. What would have been the differences between the way country women and city women were expected to behave? Or married women and single women?
A lot of a woman’s experience of society depended, as it ever does, on how much money she had. But in terms of coming from the country—in her rural childhood home my character Nella had more freedom to roam and play with her younger siblings. She also learned about the facts of life and was closer to nature. In the city of Amsterdam, she had to learn to abide by stricter civic rules and rituals, a more performative kind of life that a character like Agnes has tried to perfect.

Single women traditionally married later in Holland than their European counterparts, so if you were from the working classes you would have learned to fend for yourself. You may have had less societal pressure on you than if you were a high-born woman, but you would have had no protection had you fallen on hard times. Women were the heart of the family, they were encouraged to develop and nurture their children and the domestic sphere, because it was considered the microcosm of the state—a happy home, a happy city. Rich women were collectors of paintings and ornaments, they did order their households, but their social role was very much a supporting one. They did not take positions of public authority, unless it was as wealthy benefactresses of orphanages and charities. And these were only the super-rich.

How do you think you would fare if you were transported back to the time your novel is set?
Good question! It strikes me that as long as you “behaved” yourself, you could get by well enough. But I don’t know really how well-behaved I am . . . lower-class women often worked as seamstresses, and I can’t sew very well, so that’s out. I’d try and get work in a baker’s or a confectioner’s, so at least I’d be somewhere warm, surrounded by things to nibble on. But with societal restrictions on what jobs women could do and what spaces they could occupy, if you really wanted adventure and a more varied life, the only hope would perhaps be to marry some money so that you had some capital, and therefore potential room for maneuver. How depressing!

The mystery of the miniaturist has an ambiguous solution. If it’s possible without giving too much away, could you talk a little bit about how you developed that story thread, and why you left it the way you did?
For me, a big part of the book is about the issue of perception. People often see what they need to see, or want to see, in order to survive and make sense of life. I created the miniaturist as an agent of change, a character who was on the periphery and yet absolutely central to the heart and spirit of the book. She is a comment on creativity, on agency, on the nature of self-realization and what we do to get through this life. For some people her actions are benign and progressive, for others, they are malicious. This is because there is no objective reality. I felt no desire to over-explain. Life is strange, threads are left hanging. Nella wants to know more about her just as much as many readers might like to, but that is the point; sometimes things are elusive, and I encourage the reader, should they so wish, to make up the ground.

What are you working on next?
I’m writing a novel called Belonging. It’s set in the Spanish Civil War in 1936 and the London art world of the 1960s. A Spanish artist is disgraced and disappears, and when his works reappear thirty years later in a London gallery, a woman is forced to confront the secrets she’s been trying to keep hidden.

Author photo by Wolf Marloh.

RELATED CONTENT: Read our review of The Miniaturist.

“People often see what they need to see, or want to see, in order to survive and make sense of life. I created the miniaturist as an agent of change, a character who was on the periphery and yet absolutely central to the heart and spirit of the book.”
FictionPopular FictionDebut Fiction

Melissa Pimentel

Interview by Trisha Ping

When Melissa Pimentel moved to London to get her MA in 2004, the dating scene wasn't exactly what she expected. So the former editorial assistant turned to books for advice. Each month, she'd try a different strategy, ranging from The Rules to Belle du Jour, and blog about her experiences. The results were entertaining and the blog gained a wide readership—but the experiment ended early when Pimentel met her now-fiancé.

Now, Pimentel has written a fictional take on her experience: Love by the Book, a hilarious romp of a read that finds 20-something expat Lauren desperate enough to turn to the self-help shelf after a surprise breakup. We asked Pimentel a few questions about fact vs. fiction, the bright side of a bad date and more. 

How is writing fiction different than blogging? 
It’s more difficult in that you have to really put thought into a character’s thoughts, feelings and reactions (rather than just recounting my own), but it’s also a lot more fun because I could make Lauren do things that I would never, ever do myself! It gave me a lot of freedom and allowed me to push certain situations where, if it was me, I would have just cried uncle and got out of there. 

Lauren’s dating pitfalls are myriad—and you’ve said many of them are based on stories from you or your friends. When it comes to dating, do you think truth is stranger than fiction?  
Absolutely! Maybe it’s a searing indictment on my creativity, but every time I tried to make up a ridiculous dating scene, something from my own experience or that of a friend would top it. One of the best things about dating is that it forces you into situations you would never otherwise find yourself . . . and often those situations are completely absurd. 

If you could make men understand just one dating-related thing about women, what would it be?
That we’re more like them than they might think! I think there’s a tendency among men—not all of them—to assume that all women (particularly women in their late 20s and above) are desperate to find a man and settle down and have babies. But that just isn’t the case. Sure, there are women who are looking for commitment—in the same way that there are men who are looking for commitment. There are also women who aren’t interested in having relationships, and who aren’t looking for marriage or children—maybe just not at the minute, and maybe never. We are a many-splendored rainbow! 

"I think there’s a tendency among men to assume that all women are desperate to find a man and settle down and have babies. But that just isn’t the case."

How do you think technology has changed dating?
I think it’s changed it both for the better and for the worse. These days, single women have a plethora of attractive, allegedly available men literally at their fingertips, so meeting someone has never been so easy. It’s introduced people to a wider pool of potential mates, which is great, and brought together people who might otherwise never have swam in the same pool. 

On the other hand, all of this choice can be a little daunting. In the same way that our attention spans have shortened in the Internet age, I think the myriad choices that online dating offers can make it a little hard to settle your attention on one person. It’s like we’re all kids in a candy store after eating too many Pixie Sticks—crazed on sugar and endless possibilities and feeling ever so slightly ill as a result.

Did you find any dating guides actually useful, and if so, which one(s)?
I found that there were little nuggets of wisdom tucked away in most of them, though often you had to dig beneath a lot of nonsense to find them. The Rules was right about playing hard to get (annoying to admit but it does work), The Technique of the Love Affair was right about the joy of flirting and not putting all your eggs in one dating basket, and Belle du Jour was right about being honest about your sexuality and not shying away from asking for what you want. All very good little pearls!

If you wrote your own dating advice book, what would you call it?
“Why the Hell Not?”

Stories of women looking for love are often dismissed as trivial, even though finding a partner is a big part of most people’s lives. Why do you think that is?
Honestly, I think part of this is a feminist issue: Female stories, particularly those involving love, are seen as trivial and less worthy of thought and attention. Which is a shame, because there’s so much richness and humor and humanity to be found in those stories when they’re done well. Think of Jane Austen! But there does seem to be a prevailing sentiment surrounding stories about women looking for love that they’re somehow not worthy of respect, and I think that’s something for us all to work on to change. 

Any advice to those who are looking? (Please don’t say “it only takes one.”)
The “it only takes one” thing is very annoying and also complete nonsense. It doesn’t just take one—it takes lots! In order to know what you really want (and in order to be sure that it’s right when you find it), I think it’s important to get out there and experience as much as you can. I’m not saying you have to sleep with every guy who crosses your path or go on dates with men you find totally abhorrent, but I do think being open minded and saying yes to things you might normally try to swerve can be a really good thing.

Most importantly, though, don’t take it too seriously. Go out and have fun. Even if you go on the worst date ever, it will still end up being a funny story you can tell your friends.

Love by the Book is a hilarious romp of a read that finds expat Lauren desperate enough to turn to the self-help shelf once her ne'er do well UK boyfriend dumps her. We asked Pimentel a few questions about fact vs. fiction, the bright side of a bad date and more. 
FictionLiterary Fiction

Hanya Yanagihara

Interview by Trisha Ping

If you think you’ve read the story of four friends trying to make it in New York City already, think again. Hanya Yanagihara’s transcendent second novel is much more than its plot summary suggests. A Little Life may be the best book you read this year; it certainly will be the most heartbreaking.

The Condé Nast Travel editor, who grew up in Honolulu, made her fiction debut in 2013 with the publication of The People in the Trees. She’d been working on that novel—which weighs a scientist’s dubious morals against the good his research has accomplished—“for maybe 16 years,” she says during a call to her office in New York City.

All 700-plus pages of A Little Life, on the other hand, were written in just 18 months, after five years of mental planning. “I worked on it very steadily, three hours a day Monday through Thursday and six hours a day on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. But I knew where it was going the whole way.”

That’s an advantage the reader of this often-surprising literary tour de force won’t have. As the stories of the four main characters—college roommates Willem, Jude, Malcolm and JB—unfurl over three decades, Yanagihara deftly fills in the separate pasts that have shaped their shared present.

“I was very drawn to the idea of a group of friends,” Yanagihara explains. “My very best friend, to whom the book is dedicated, has a large group of friends who I call the herd of cats. They’ve known each other since high school and college, and I’ve always admired their dynamic and how hard they work at staying friends.”

Like any friend group, the foursome faces ups and downs: romantic disappointments, career successes, drug addictions. Two go into professional careers—Jude becomes a lawyer and Malcolm, an architect—while JB and Willem pursue art and acting, respectively. But it soon becomes clear that the biggest conflict in A Little Life is Jude’s struggle with his past demons, which include abandonment and abuse. While his entire history doesn’t become clear until well into the book, readers will realize early on that it’s not something to be easily overcome—giving a story that might otherwise be essentially a domestic one serious emotional heft, as well as a sharper, more dangerous edge.

“One of the themes of the book is this hope that we all live with: that one other person can save us—and the realization that we really can’t be saved, that the idea of being saved itself is sort of a false conceit . . . “

“One of the themes of the book is this hope that we all live with: that one other person can save us—and the realization that we really can’t be saved, that the idea of being saved itself is sort of a false conceit,” Yanagihara says, citing the “limits of what any one person can do for someone else.”

The reader does indeed feel helpless at times in the face of the cruelties that Jude endured. Yanagihara fully commits to bringing readers all the way into her characters’ lives—the dark spots as well as the bright—with a visceral realism. “A friend of mine called it sort of an emotional horror story in a way, and I guess it is,” she admits. (This interviewer read one scene peeking out between her fingers, which was a first.)

Child abuse is tricky to handle in fiction, but Yanagihara seems drawn to exploring the subject, which was also an element of The People in the Trees.

“I’m interested in how people compensate for some great harm when they were young,” she explains. “One of the great concerns for fiction in general is the fundamental vulnerability of humans,” adding that children represent the most vulnerable group of all.

But while Jude’s trauma may give the book its drama, at its heart A Little Life is a study of friendship, a relationship that “can never really be codified,” says Yanagihara. “With gay marriage, we are seeing a relationship that has always existed between two men or two women get a legal name. But friendship will never have a legal definition.”

She was particularly interested in male friendship, because “men are friends in very different ways than women are friends. Socially—and not just in our society but almost every society—they’re given a much smaller emotional toolbox to work with. They’re not allowed to name, much less express, the sort of feelings that come very naturally and easily to women.” (Originally, she’d intended to have no women in A Little Life, but decided it was “too contrived-sounding” and scrapped the idea.)

Yanagihara’s grasp of the complexities of friendship is masterful and will spark recognition in any reader, male or female. You might say that this book is to friendship as The Corrections was to family.

“Although we have seen depictions of great friendships in books, I don’t think it’s something that as a society we collectively value as much as we should,” she says.

The novel is carefully structured—something Yanagihara says “was as important to me as any of the flashier elements”—into seven sections. The first four are each set five years apart, but the final three sections run together, to echo the way that the experience of time changes througout life. “As you get older—I recently turned 40—time seems to shrink and compress, and it becomes something that is lived less by these sort of big epic milestones and simply by moments,” says Yanagihara.

A Little Life takes place somewhere close to the current day, although the exact time is never specified. “I wanted the book to have a sort of fable-like quality to it,” says Yanagihara.

Fable or not, New York City—currently Yanagihara’s home base—is vibrantly depicted here, from crappy post-college apartments in Chinatown to the SoHo lofts that come with adult success. Also very New York: the way that each of the characters is driven to break from the past.

“Everyone here is sort of looking for another family . . . this idealized set of people who will understand them,” she says.

Malcolm, Willem, JB and Jude find that set of people in each other, and readers of A Little Life will feel a part of it. With this epic and moving story, Yanagihara proves that she is a literary force to be reckoned with.

 

This article was originally published in the March 2015 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

If you think you’ve read the story of four friends trying to make it in New York City already, think again. Hanya Yanagihara’s transcendent second novel is much more than its plot summary suggests. A Little Life may be the best book you read this year; it certainly will be the most heartbreaking.
FictionHistorical FictionDebut Fiction

Daniel Torday

Interview by Trisha Ping

Debut novelist Daniel Torday puts a fresh spin on World War II in The Last Flight of Poxl West, a page-turning literary tale about truth, lies and forgiveness. Eli Goldstein idolizes his uncle Poxl, a Czech Jew who served in Britain's Royal Air Force. The novel alternates between the adult Eli's voice and the pages of Poxl's memoir as the two coming-of-age stories converge. We asked Torday a few questions about the book—without spoiling the novel's many pleasurable twists and turns.

Your first published book was a novella. Did you approach the writing of a full-length novel differently? 
You know, it’s funny—I tend to work in the dark a bit on projects and their size. I mean, I know what I’m writing about, but then I just put up blinders for months, years, and work work work the sentences as hard as I can. Which is to say: The Sensualist actually started as a novel, and at one point grew to as big as almost 300 pages. But as I went through successive drafts, over the course of years, it just got chiseled away until it was a novella.

The Last Flight of Poxl West, on the other hand, was about a 70-page novella my first stab at it. I’d just gotten back from a summer in Eastern Europe (more on that below!) and I thought I’d try my hand at getting Poxl’s voice down. Then I realized I had a lot more research and homework to do, so I put it down. At various points it was more like a 400-page novel; a novella with a very brief prologue; a long novel with a short story interspliced in it. At one point an editor I admire even suggested it should just contain a lot of footnotes, like The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. Which is I guess just to say: I have to throw a lot up against the wall to see what sticks. It’s not an efficient or smart way to work, I don’t think. But it’s the only way I’ve figured out how. Novel-making is messy business.

"Novel-making is messy business."

This novel alternates between Eli’s point-of-view as he looks back on his childhood, and excerpts from Poxl’s memoir. Which voice was easier to write?
I love the way you’ve asked this question! I could give 180-degree different answers depending on what we end up meaning by “easy.” I always had a strong grasp on how I wanted Poxl to sound—like this kind of Nabakovian Eastern European intellectual of a variety I’d heard bloviating in my Hungarian grandparents’ world when I was a kid. But over the years it actually took a lot of toning Poxl down, layering in some quieter introspection, to really bring his voice off.

Eli, on the other hand, was a very late-breaking development. I’d always known I had to find a way to balance the contemporary story of the publication of Poxl West’s memoir with the memoir itself. But how? For years the other voice was Samuel Gerson, the narrator of my first book. I had this ridiculous notion that I could be like James Joyce, and just do permutations of Stephen Dedalus in book after book. But that didn’t work. And all at once, a couple summers ago, I tried a short-story version of this story out—narrated by a middle-aged guy, Eli, who was looking back on his childhood to decipher this complicated period with his uncle. In the story, he was Uncle Saul. It took my leaving it in a drawer for almost a year before I thought to just call Saul “Poxl,” and integrate it into the manuscript. Which is to say: From one perspective it took no appreciable thought, no effort at all to just go with Eli’s voice—it came to me all at once, effortlessly. From another, it took almost 8 years of toil for it to arrive unbidden. Mysterious.

Poxl is an engaging and entertaining narrator, but as the novel progresses it becomes clear the past may not be as straightforward as he presents it. Do you think it’s possible for a person to get at the truth of their own life?
Great question! In some ways, I think we know each other the least of anyone in our lives. It’s a problem of information overload. We know too much of ourselves to know ourselves well, or as others know us. In a work of fiction, it’s easy enough to say, as Amy Hempel does so brilliantly, something like, He was so great I knew girls who would chew his already-chewed gum. But if we said that about ourselves, we’d look entirely ego-driven, self-aggrandizing.

I heard Tobias Wolff once say his favorite bad line to an apprentice story he’d ever read started, “As I walk down what other men call streets . . .” So good/bad! But put that line in the mouth of another character observing his overblown sense of self-importance, and suddenly it’s genius.

I guess part of what I’m saying, as well, is that every day of our lives we wake up a different Trisha, a different Dan, a different Leopold-whose-nickname-is-Poxl. If someone stopped us on the street and said, So, your childhood—good? Bad? Indifferent? Sum it up in a sentence. Or a chapter. Or a memoir. It would be too hard to just to give a terse response. And that’s what’s so hard in some way for Poxl in writing his memoir. He lived this outsized life—so how to tell it? Flannery O’Connor says somewhere something like, If one can’t make much of little experience, he’s unlikely to make much of a lot. Something like that applies here, I think.

"In some ways, I think we know each other the least of anyone in our lives. . . . He lived this outsized life—so how to tell it?"

At one point, a reporter asks Poxl if we’ve “reached saturation” with first-person accounts of WWII. That’s something readers might wonder as well! How would you answer the question?
It’s a question I grappled with every day of the eight years I worked on this book. I guess in some ways my main answer is that we work with the material we’re given, and a very very very long tail followed the six years of that war. I grew up with a grandfather who survived years in a Hungarian labor camp, and almost all of whose family died in death camps, and a grandmother who was so scarred and scared by the war she never admitted she was Jewish to me or to my family in the 40 years she lived in this country. To deny that as part of who I am because of a question of readership or marketplace would feel somehow disingenuous. Or maybe just a task for a stronger smarter person than me.

But the flip side is that the questions we ask of that experience have to be new questions. Fresh questions. For me in this case, I started to unearth stories about experiences within my family of a kind I’d never heard of before. Around the same time, W.G. Sebald had become, to my understanding of the situation, the first German public intellectual to raise some real questions about the Allied bombing of Germany—in a lecture in the late 1990s that wasn’t published in translation here until about 10 years ago. Then it was published as On the Natural History of Destruction, and now Germans are grappling with it for the first time. U.S., British and Canadian planes destroyed more than 100 German cities, killing hundreds of thousands of civilians and leaving millions without homes. This was all new to me, and I suspect it might be new to some readers. So the history I was grappling with felt like news to me, anyway.

"We work with the material we’re given, and a very very very long tail followed the six years of that war. "

What research did you do for this book?
I’m not a historian, and so I have a very haphazard research method—if you could even call it that. For a couple of summers, I traveled to Europe, where each time I traced the steps Poxl would have taken from his home north of Prague, to Rotterdam and up to London. I visited with the handful of relatives who survived the war. I didn’t hire a translator or anything—I would stay in hostels and hotels, and get on trains and buses and just get a sense of a place. I was gratified to see that in The New York Times Book Review, their reviewer quoted from part of one of Poxl’s descriptions of the Elbe, the river outside of Leitmeritz, that came in part from an afternoon I took to just go walk down by the river and see what it looked like, smelled like.

But of course then I had to follow up by reading a bunch of books. The two main kinds of resources that came to feel helpful to me were a bit of a surprise: very minute military histories of single days during the war, and self-published memoirs. The military histories helped me in being able to be super specific about a single sortie, a single battle Poxl would have experienced (I use that word with all apt caveats!), or a single night in the Blitz, for instance. The self-published memoirs were great for their honesty, the sense of dailiness I really wanted to reproduce here. But they were also helpful for what they weren’t: propulsive, edited, well-written, all that readable. I was so taken with the material, I always had to ask myself the question: What would make the memoir Poxl’s writing publishable, where these ones so obviously weren’t? Some of that is of course a matter of luck, ambition, timing. But some of it does show up in the sentences, the material.

Eli’s discovery of his uncle’s humanity may take place in an unusual context, but a child’s realization that the adults in his life are people, too, is a universal experience. What drew you to write about it?
Just what you said! For years I grappled with the outsized nature of Poxl’s story, the way he was telling it. What I wanted on the other end, from the other voice, was for it to be as close and real and emotionally knowable as possible. What better, more universal way to handle that than to make the thing Eli was dealing with somehow smaller, familiar even, than it seems: Poxl was like a grandfather to him, and when he really saw who this hero of his was, it was deflating and more complicated than what he’d expected to find.

What are you working on next?
I’m always working on a thousand things at once, and waiting to see what’s getting closest to finished. So right now that includes a number of projects. One entails putting a whole bunch of the short stories I’ve been at work on into a single Word file, and seeing if they work as a book. One is either a book-length essay or a collection of essays—or both. I’ve been working for years on a strange novel about a kid who makes a brother for himself out of duct tape. And last summer I got a bunch of pages down on another large-scale new novel that’s a little too new to say much more about, other than that it’s very tentatively titled American Protest right now.

 

Author photo by Matt Barrick.

Debut novelist Daniel Torday puts a fresh spin on World War II in The Last Flight of Poxl West, a page-turning literary tale about truth, lies and forgiveness. Eli Goldstein idolizes his uncle Poxl, a Hungarian Jew who served in Britain's Royal Air Force during WWII. The novel alternates between the adult Eli's voice and the pages of Poxl's memoir as the two coming-of-age stories converge.

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