What inspired you to write Dark Things I Adore?
Wisps of ideas occur to me every now and again, but more often than not, I am led to a story by voice. A voice provides entry into a rhythm, into a way of noticing the world, then eventually into the things that happen around that perspective—which the voice ultimately filters and translates. The voice I started with in the very first iteration of this story ended up being an art student traveling to their professor’s home on the Maine coast. This professor had a spouse who was an artist who needed rather grizzly inspiration for her works. And that’s how it all began. Obviously, the trajectory of the story changed quite a lot from there, but at the heart of it remained art and this rather morbid question of what it might take for some to create it.
Some people need a regimented schedule to write (an hour a day, for example), while others are happy to write half of a novel in a single sitting. What does your writing process look like?
Oh, how I wish to be a regimented writer! There’s something romantic about the idea to me, something very professional and noble. I have tried early alarms on cold, dark mornings; I have tried a promise of at least thirty minutes a day no matter what; I have tried sitting at a proper desk at which to compose. None of it is for me. Years of trial and error—and fighting my instincts—have shown me that I am and will only ever be what I refer to as a Tea Kettle Writer; I burble and heat and hum (thinking, ruminating, procrastinating), and then when it all boils to a sense of Must Write, I do just that—I write. On my couch. In my bed. Then I can go on day-long jags. But then there will be days and weeks (sometime months!) at a time where I don’t write or only write fanfiction.
There are so many elements to this story—multiple perspectives, dual timelines, Coral’s art, Audra’s trap for Max. How did you keep them all straight? Is that something you mapped out before sitting down to write?
To this point in my writing life, I have never outlined or mapped anything out story- or plot-wise before starting. And I say this not as some sort of brag but only to point out the fact that I have little to no foresight about what I’m about to do when I start! And with Dark Things I Adore, things got more complicated with each draft. In early drafts, there was only one timeline, there were fewer POVs, and certain scenes existed in different places in the timeline. As things evolved and deepened in dimension and complexity, I found that I absolutely had to start taking notes on the fly. I took down notes in marble notebooks and Google Docs, drew diagrams on an easel-sized pad of drawing paper, and eventually created a spreadsheet database to keep it all straight! My next book, which is under way, will have some outlining because the core plot concept has started to solidify. The idea came before the voice this time!
Using Audra’s thesis—and art in general—as a narrative thread is an interesting choice. How did you come up with it? Do you have a background in fine arts?
I’m a very middling visual artist, but I love art as a pure spectator and have immense respect for visual artists and what they can do. The painter Julie Beck is my current favorite. I think I was drawn to visual art in my storytelling in this book because there is something so physical, so tactile, so sensory about painting—the tools, the relationship of body to brush to paint to canvas, the magical-sounding color names—that it seemed to me a perfect medium to try to work with inside a novel. Everything about it feels very delicious and substantial and evocative. A fun challenge for a writer to do that ultimate thing: show, don’t tell.
Audra rebels against the idea that she and Max are similar, though ultimately that proves to be true. When you started writing this book, is that how you imagined Audra’s story would end?
No!
Juniper, a character who witnesses abuse but remains silent, is a fascinating example of moral ambiguity. How did you tackle writing a sympathetic but flawed character?
Ah, Juniper. Juniper has such an important function as a character, of course—to be the reader’s eyes and ears during a fraught and seminal time in the lives of a few of our main characters. I wanted Juniper to be able to convey what was happening without editorializing in a way that stunted the reader’s relationship to the complexities of what was unfolding. Juniper is a portal. The reader gets to decide what to make of what they see through her. But as a person, Juniper, for me, feels almost painfully human, painfully familiar. For me, Juniper represents a kind of ongoing, internal Kitty Genovese phenomenon—the bystander effect. And it lasts the whole length of the book. Juniper reminds us that even when we’re by and large “good” people, it’s easy—scary easy—to watch suffering of various kinds and assume the problem is beyond us to solve. Or it’s not our place, not our business. That the bad-vibes prickle up our spines is a misfire, that we’re imagining trouble where there isn’t any. Or that rocking the boat might lose us friends. Juniper is that sore spot of regret and frailty we all have from time to time, in big ways and in small ways, when we say to ourselves: I should have said something. I should have done something. But we didn’t.
What draws you to dark, psychological stories as a writer? As a reader?
I’ve always been interested in things that are a little on the macabre end of the spectrum. As a kid, I remember watching Unsolved Mysteries and Are You Afraid of the Dark? and reading Goosebumps and Two-Minute Mysteries. I loved them. To this day I inhale podcasts like My Favorite Murder, The Last Podcast on the Left, Dr. Death, S-Town, and more. I’ll Be Gone in the Dark and The Stranger Beside Me left me sleepless and triple-checking my door locks when I read them last year, but I kept on reading. Whether the stories are true crime or fiction, a person who embarks into any of these narratives goes in at the mercy of the inexplicable. I think that’s a big part of the draw. We read and dissect and listen and force ourselves to imagine in an effort to understand the un-understandable. The split-second trigger that results in a crime of passion. The long years of build to a calculated horror. The grit of survivors who escape someone else’s terrible plan for them. The bald, raw courage of loved ones left behind in the wake of a sudden and violent absence. How? We ask. Why? So we look to the evidence and materials around us and try to make sense of what’s there. I think it’s as expansive and mysterious as outer space, what goes on inside of any one person. I think that’s why psychological stories are so popular, and always will be.
It seems that all the characters (Max, Mantis, Audra, Juniper, and even Lance) are guilty of something. Do you think any of the characters here are inherently good?
You know, I became increasingly aware of this as I kept writing and rewriting these people! No one comes out as a great candidate for any sort of humanitarian award. But! I don’t think people are all good or all bad, of course. Not even Max and Mantis are all bad. (Though, to be sure, they are mostly bad!) So by this logic, all of them are inherently good(!). But the levels of goodness vary wildly from character to character. I think Coral might have the highest “good quotient” and then maybe Lance.
Can you talk about the different forms of complicity in this story?
There’s so much! But I think all of it can basically be broken down into two major types: complicities of action and complicities of silence. There are characters who knowingly and deliberately do things that have major and horrible impacts on others. I think of Moss, Mantis, and Audra in particular. And then there are characters who understand and recognize various forms of peril and abuse around them and remain silent. I think of Juniper, Lance (who’s a bit of a mix), and even Coral to a lesser extent—perhaps when it comes to Ashley Pelletier. I think one of the interesting things about all of this interplay of complicity is that a lot of the time it emerges out of a character’s strong need—however selfish that need might be. Moss needs to be great artist. Mantis needs his past to remain a secret. Audra needs closure. Juniper needs the connectivity friendship affords. Lance needs Audra. Coral needs relief. So they each do what is within their power to do to achieve these ends. Often with tragic consequences.
What kinds of books are you reading these days?
I’m currently reading Good Neighbors by Sarah Langan and Black Widows by Cate Quinn. I recently finished Leave the World Behind by Rumaan Alam, which absolutely knocked my socks off!