1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
My first book, Exit Strategies, came out during COVID when everyone’s life was turned upside-down. I’m not sure what I expected to feel when the book was released, but the news that it would be published and the work leading up to that publication were thrilling and, in some ways, more significant than the actual publication. Once it was a physical book, it felt apart from me. A child that had grown up and had to find its own legs, its own place in the world.
Exit Strategies is a collection of short stories, most of which had been published in literary journals before they ended up in the book. My new book, Most Grievous Fault, is a novel. No part of it was published before the book as a whole. It feels huge. A whole world that has been created and is now accessible for others to participate in. Again, I had the initial excitement when I heard that the book would be published, and again, I am now looking at something that stands on its own: it is no longer mine.
2 - How did you come to fiction first, as opposed to, say, poetry or non-fiction?
I don’t know that this was a choice. I have a vivid imagination, and perhaps that’s detrimental to the writing of non-fiction, in particular. My mind either wanders happily away from the truth, or my memory is just too poor to hold onto it. Not that imagination isn’t beneficial to the other two forms. I’m sure it is. But for me, imagination seems to take over. Also, I enjoy reading fiction, and just as I like to get lost in the reading of a story, so too do I like to get lost in the writing of one. However, it’s also the case that, after the exhilarating and sometimes frightening freedom that is the first draft, I have to lean into what I imagine are the artistic skills of a poet and the detail-exacting talents of a non-fiction writer.
3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?
Most Grievous Fault is my first novel to be published, and writing it was a long process. The first draft was written quickly, without thought or plan. The ideas and images and characters were there, but there was no form, no proper structure, and it was the wrong protagonist, the wrong tense and perspective. Sorting through all of that took more than a year. After that initial restructuring, I turned to short fiction, looking at the novel occasionally, but mostly coming to terms with the fact that I was planning to abandon it. But my protagonist, Crystal, stayed with me, and at some point, I made a commitment to her and pushed through. The fact that she is unlikeable made the work difficult. I needed her to be sympathetic even though, really, she isn’t.
I am not a note taker. I write and rewrite, starting over and then starting over again. I have many versions of Crystal’s story. Many versions, in fact, of all my stories. I write quickly, but I edit slowly.
4 - Where does a work of fiction usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?
Ideas come from anywhere. Something I see or hear, a truck at the side of the road, someone’s gait, the tilt of a head, a conversation. A short story begins from there: not much more than nothing at all. Ideas for novels, however, seem to appear in my head like movies. They roll around for a long, long time before I sit down to pay attention to the script. I’m inclined to start a short story anywhere and at any point. For a novel, I need time and space. It’s a commitment. Long term.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
When I am working on something, I prefer not to share it for fear it will stifle, thwart, or disrupt my creativity. However, when I have a finished project, I’m happy to read. Writing is meant to be shared and the kind of sharing that readings present opens me to other ways of interpreting the work and other ways of understanding what I have written. I also really enjoy reading aloud in a general sense, whether it’s my work or the works of others.
6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?
My writing, no matter which direction I think I’m headed in, veers towards the morally murky, the struggle of the human to be and do good, the challenges in determining right from wrong, the questions of faith in self, in others, in God, and the fallibility of the human body. I’m interested in what it means to be human, where and how we find meaning in life, and the difficulties in sustaining honest relationships. For me, these are questions that are universal and that stay with us, relevant whether the story is told through the perspective of believers or non-believers, thinkers or doers, whether it’s set in a pre-industrial period or in a time of the internet and AI.
7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in the larger culture? Do they even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?
We all have stories, big stories and little stories and in-between stories. They are all relevant and interesting, always. It seems to me that the writer is attempting to find meaning in these stories and then to translate them into something that is accessible.
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Both. The fact that the story has become part of me, that I feel it internally and know every version of it on a visceral level, including what has been removed and what was never put in but is germane peripherally, can stand in the way of clarity for a reader. This is where the sharp eye of an editor is invaluable and essential. Knowing when and why outside opinion is necessary is the job of the writer. At a certain point, we can be too close to the story to see what’s happening and what’s missing.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
My father used to say, “Doe gewoon.” I’m not sure if it was his or if it’s a typical Dutch saying, but it means “be natural,” “be yourself.” In other words, behave without artifice, without theatrics.
10 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?
Although it depends on where I am in a piece, I don’t think I can say I really have a routine. Perhaps I even avoid rigidity in my writing practice. When things are going well, my project is open on the dining room table and I write in fits and starts throughout the day, using what I’m doing between bursts of writing to work things out in my mind. I am fully in it, dreaming it and living it. Public writing, writing in the car, in a park, at the side of the community pool, in a coffee shop—every place and everything gets channelled somehow into the piece. No gatekeepers until I sit down to edit, which is, in some ways, where the real writing work happens, and which can be either enjoyable or frustrating.
I start my days early with coffee and my laptop. I like to see the sun rise.
11 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
I find it helpful to write with other people, which is something that’s not always possible. A long walk can also serve (sometimes) to generate ideas or to move things forward. I suppose it’s also true that when I’m not writing, I can’t imagine ever writing again, and when everything is going well, I can’t imagine a project ever stalling or my mind ever not being productive. Sometimes it’s difficult not to feel unsettled by a lack of inspiration, and even though I tell myself that it will pass, there is a part of me that is unsure. Sometimes it’s a big part; sometimes it’s smaller, quieter.
12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
The smells of goat’s milk, Bantam chickens, Earl Grey tea, prairie grasses—these I associate with my childhood home. My late grandmother’s perfume, Arpège by Lanvin, reminds me of home in general, home as a place that is warmly familiar. The smell of teak, as well, because of her teak cupboard, which is now my teak cupboard.
13 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?
I think a lot about the process of painting when I write, this rendering of what one sees, either physically or mentally, into something that others see as well. Making something from nothing. And I listen to the radio, absorbing whatever comes my way, choosing nothing but the station itself. Talk, music, political discussion, opera, news—it all floats past me and I can only assume it influences me, even though often it’s hard to pinpoint exactly why and what will serve as a muse.
14 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
This changes for me. Currently, I am drawn to Deborah Levy, all her works really. I love the way she looks at things, her thoughtfulness and intelligence and the way she sees her work as part of the continuum that is the world of writing. I like how she struggles to understand what it is she does—her introspection. I also love Rachel Cusk’s writing.
15 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
A very difficult question. I don’t have a bucket list and am inclined to be open to whatever comes my way, and, at the same time, I tend to be rather careful not to let too much come my way. In my mind, I’d like to be a spy—to observe without anyone knowing I’m there. I’d like to be invisible.
16 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?
I think I might have been a teacher, and I also think I could not have been a teacher. I love to observe and attempt to understand why a person is the way they are. In other words, I like to step into other people’s shoes. When I’m waiting for my car to be fixed, I am a mechanic; when I’m in the doctor’s office, I’m the one with the stethoscope. I’m a barista, a grocery clerk, a dental hygienist, a road worker, a horse trainer, a mountain climber. And I am none of those things. If I hadn’t started writing, I would be dreaming of writing.
17 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
I still remember this intense excitement I felt in grade 1 when I opened my notebook to a blank page and had a pencil in my hand. I remember my first reader with its simple images and vivid colours. I remember learning the word “why”. To read a book was to be transported. To write a book? This was the pinnacle. Unreachable. I was and am in awe of writers.
18 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
While I can’t really say what the last great book I read was, some recent reads that impacted me and still linger include M.A.C. Farrant’s memoir My Turquoise Years and Jente Posthuma’s very poignant novel What I’d Rather Not Think About, as well as Arlene Heyman’s short fiction collection Scary Old Sex. These books are very different thematically and otherwise, but they all convey “story” beautifully. Also, Edward St Aubyn’s Patrick Melrose and John Fowles’s Daniel Martin. Recent films that have stayed with me include Maestro and Conclave, as well as the limited series, Adolescence and Secrets We Keep. Also, films by Andrea Arnold.
19 - What are you currently working on?
I am always writing short stories and at the moment these seem to be focussed on vulnerability, the fragility of our minds and bodies. I am also searching, mentally, for the characters who will together shape my next novel, which might be about sibling relations, or dying parents, or the interplay of helping and hindering, or the search for our place in life, or all of these.
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