A Conversation with Emily Gray Tedrowe

Q: What is your writing routine like? The Talented Miss Farwell is your third novel, has anything about your process changed from book to book?

A: I’d never done this before, but I wrote the first draft of The Talented Miss Farwell by hand. Using a pen and notepad. Often people are amazed when I tell them this, and I get it—it slowed things down considerably. And yet that was the point. I knew with this book I was tackling a much bigger project than I’d worked on before: a twenty-year time span, in-depth scenes from the art and finance worlds, and sustained tension that built to a dramatic ending. Removing the element of computer speed that we all know and love helped me quiet enough to sink deep into the story, one scribbled line after another. Writing by hand also gave me the sense of privacy, a knowledge that no one but me knew what the pages held. The freedom of that, and the chance to take my pages to a coffee shop or park bench, created a perfect bubble where I could play with Becky’s story far from the distractions and temptations of the internet. Another benefit was that each time I typed up a chapter—piecing together my messy and crossed-out sections—I ran the story through my mind again, allowing me to understand its flaws and strengths.

Q: Were you interested in art before writing this book? How much research did you do on the art world? Was there anything particularly fascinating you learned?

A: While I’ve always been interested in visual art, I’ve never studied it formally (aside from one art history course in college). But I’m an avid museumgoer, and I tend to read biographies of artists. So I think you could say I had a medium amount of familiarity with the basics of the art world. For research, I sought out guides to art collecting, I read blogs and reviews, and I generally tried to approach all of this through the eyes of someone rabid for knowledge and impatient to understand everything—i.e., Becky. In terms of what I learned, I found myself most fascinated by glimpses of the social code inherent in the blue-chip collector world. For example, it’s considered extremely gauche to attempt to outbid a piece that has just sold to someone else . . . so, of course, I had Becky do this. As with any subculture, there are hidden rules and protocols. I loved ferreting these out, and making them up.

Q: What was your favorite scene to write? What was the hardest to write?

A: I love this question because it reminds me how much I loved writing this novel. Yes, there were difficult moments, and yes, the revisions were hard work (revisions are always hard work). But I showed up happy almost every day I got to create this story. My favorite scene is the time Becky jets to Miami with a Hail Mary plan to save her faltering art world career. She throws an over-the-top party to impress a gallerist that ends in comic disarray but somehow doesn’t daunt her in the slightest. Becky’s “go big or go home” spirit is never more apparent than in this scene, and I had a blast making it up. As for hardest to write, I would say: the final chapters. When you spend years with a character, the journey’s end is always painful—in this case especially so, given what Becky has coming to her.

Q: What was your experience writing a character who can be seen as an antihero? Was it a challenge to make Becky someone readers can root for and empathize with even as her actions break the law and sometimes hurt others?

A: In fact, I relished the fraught challenge of writing the rise and fall of a character like Becky. When women are portrayed in fiction as wrongdoers it’s most often in the realm of personal or domestic life: the story of a wife cheating on her husband, or a mother abandoning her family. I wanted to write a female character who is so criminally ambitious, so devoted to her own devious goals, that she will stop at almost nothing to get what she wants. I wanted readers to marvel at Becky more than I wanted them to empathize with her. That said, Becky does care (sometimes) about (some) people, notably her fellow town residents and Ingrid, her best friend. I hoped that by showing her devotion, even when it is misguided, I could entice readers to deepen their understanding of Becky although they might not be able to excuse her actions.

Q: Why do you think we’re so fascinated with con artists like Becky, both in literature and in real life?

A: My sense is that many of us appreciate a big life. And con artists, for whatever their faults, live big lives, full of drama and danger and the thrill of getting away with something. Of course, the big lives—especially the criminal kind—are often best appreciated from a safe distance, which is why we enjoy these people when they are depicted in fiction or journalism . . . less so when they pop up in our own day-to-day reality. One aspect of the con artist life is how isolated it is, by necessity. Becky Farwell has a moment where she craves someone to talk to about it all, just one hour of conversation with another con artist, someone who carries as much of a secret burden as she does. We may be fascinated by these cons, but despite the spectacle, they live lonely lives at heart.

Q: If you could pull a Becky Farwell and illegally buy one piece of art, what would it be?

A: I have to confess that I play this game, mentally, almost every time I walk through a museum. I have a physical response to art I love, whether it’s a sudden urge to touch a sculpture or to hold a painting in my hands. Writing the scene where Becky indulges a similar urge was pleasurably cathartic. As for what I’d love to fantasy-buy, I can see myself emulating Becky’s go-for-bust attitude by taking home an incredibly beautiful, incredibly large photograph I’ve loved for many years. It’s called The Flooded Grave by Jeff Wall, and it’s in the Art Institute of Chicago, where I’m lucky to visit it frequently. Wall makes large-scale staged photographs; The Flooded Grave depicts a watery grave that is also an actual aquatic habitat, sea stars included. It sounds macabre, but I actually find it playful and even soothing. I can see myself hanging it in our apartment—if I could find the wall space, that is.