On balancing the public and the private

You just wrapped an extensive tour with over a dozen stops across the U.S. for your new novel, The Catch. How did you take care of yourself on the road?

Before the tour started, I told myself, “You’re going to have to treat yourself a little bit like—this is very dramatic, but—an athlete.” Not that I was working out, because I wasn’t. But I made sure I had my plant medicines, my ashwagandha. I’m really serious about it. The dysregulation from constant flights, it gets to you. At some point, you realize your body is really affected by that. So I was on it with my teas. I had friends brewing them, and I carried them in bags that probably looked very suspicious in my carry-on.

You’re using the opposite part of yourself that sat alone in a room writing for two years. Now you’re out in the world. I made it restful. I tried to slow down and not feel the urge to over-promise, especially in cities where I was seeing friends I hadn’t seen in a long time.

The first time I saw you perform was at The Booksmith in San Francisco in 2018. You went straight to the podium and began reciting your poetry from memory. I was already familiar with your work on the page, but seeing you deliver it live was incredibly powerful and left a lasting impression.

I appreciate that very much. I love performing and performers, so it means a lot to me. With a poem, some people are only going to really feel it by hearing it. Not everybody connects on the page. We all appreciate things in different ways. For some people, hearing that same poem read aloud will mean so much more. So then I feel like it’s my responsibility to take it off the page.

I find reading long-form work aloud can be challenging, especially in an age of fragmented attention. You’ve read poetry and creative nonfiction before, but how did it feel to read fiction on this tour?

I’m totally with you on that. I always look for the most impactful, high-tension moments… Our brains have changed from constantly looking at our phones. Our attention spans have definitely shortened. So, when I’m choosing what to read, I ask myself, what would I want to hear? It has to be a moment that hits hard, like when the mother tells her daughter she’s going to kill her. That kind of intensity.

I think of it like a performer, but also like a marketer. It’s like a trailer—you show the most tense, shocking scenes to draw people in. You can do that with fiction readings, too. Because sometimes a piece might be beautifully written but if it’s just someone walking up a street, it might not land. We can’t account for where everyone is mentally when they walk into a room. I try to choose something that grabs the audience by the throat, because you don’t have much time.

Your novel breaks a lot of traditional rules. You use shifting points of view, elements of magical realism, and an unconventional third-person narrator. Did anyone advise you against taking those risks? How did you learn to trust your intuition and follow through?

I’m glad you asked that. It’s come up a lot on this tour, and I really do trust this part of my life, deeply. I let the work move through me and I follow it. I don’t let fear get in the way. First, I know it’s the only way I can work. It has to be fun for me, especially with a book this big. I’m not a planner or a plotter. I have to enjoy the process. Second, I’ve always done things on my own. That’s how I started. I’ve always followed my instincts. But I know what you mean. Once you’re in the industry, you really have to push back against the urge to be pigeonholed [into] “she’s a poet,” or “she’s a fiction writer.” I’ve been lucky. I haven’t really been told I can’t do it.

Every book I’ve written has been different, and I think that mirrors life. I don’t like being boxed in. That probably makes things harder sometimes—people like things they can sell and define. But I don’t know how to do it any other way.

Your writing feels like it builds organically, stitched together like a quilt. There’s a shared sense of discovery, and your enthusiasm comes through on the page.

Exactly. It’s fun. I always joke—though I’m only half-joking—that when people ask about the twists and turns, I tell them I was surprised, too. I’m experiencing it right alongside the reader. They ask, “How did you plan this?” and I say, “I wrote it down like a secretary.” That’s how in it I am.

Clara, one of the main characters in The Catch, is a semi-famous writer dealing with a pretty public life. Was it fun to explore the duality and meta elements of her character, especially in relation to your own experience in the literary world?

It was fun to play with the duality, the contrast between what she’s really thinking and what she’s saying. The character is constantly being thrown into spaces where that tension is heightened. The book explores voyeurism, too—how we observe others and project our own narratives onto them. I mean, I do it myself. I’ll be on Instagram looking at someone’s career path, imagining what their life must be like. We all do it.

I wanted to examine that gap between public perception and private experience, especially as the character receives all these accolades while internally experiencing something very different. It was genuinely fun to write about that and to dig into the contradictions of this industry.

The Catch** also presents a contrast between the two sisters. Clara is performative and more outward-facing while Dempsey is routine-driven and introspective in nature. As a writer, did you identify with that duality? Do you think balancing visibility with interiority is required to make art?**

Yes, I think you need a certain reticence as an artist—a kind of internal withdrawal from the world. You’re not engaging with life in the same way most people do. There’s this push and pull of moments when you’re deeply inward, and others when you’re out there, doing all the things, showing up everywhere. That balance is essential.

How do you manage your relationship with Instagram, and do you have any advice for other writers?

I’ll be honest: I’m in it. I made the decision to be online and to approach it a bit differently, but that’s not without its challenges. I do regret how much time and mental space it takes up. That said, social media has been an incredible vehicle for my career. Back in the self-publishing days of Bone, when I was selling copies out of my bag in Oakland, it was Instagram and Tumblr that helped me find my readers. I’m deeply grateful for that.

Even now, I see [social media] as a space where I can share small pieces of writing. Let’s face it, most people aren’t reading long-form work on those platforms. So, I try to use it for what it does best. The landscape keeps changing—often in ways that confound or worry me—but I’ve chosen to stay part of it. It takes up too much space, yes. But it also continues to offer something real. Both things are true.

Do you do everything yourself?

Everything… As writers, we’re expected to do everything ourselves. Once a book is out, it’s on us to promote it, to keep talking about it, over and over again. Like last night—you have to mention an event at least five times before you can even hope people will show up. The burden falls heavily on the writer, and I do find that difficult. But I keep doing it because I care deeply about the work and what we do.

The Catch feels like a powerful example of using imagination to reach emotional truth. Did writing fiction allow you to access something that nonfiction or poetry couldn’t?

You know what? I’ll say this: it’s not that I accessed more, but I accessed it differently. With my memoir, The Terrible, I was deep in the raw, gritty truth of my own experience. But with fiction, there’s a kind of wildness to the access. It doesn’t all have to come directly from me; it can come from what I imagine, what I project, or what I invent in another person. That freedom is wonderful. In some ways, fiction lets you go even deeper or wilder, precisely because it’s not bound by your own lived reality.

Did you set out to write magical realism, or did it emerge in your work?

I think magical realism is just naturally a part of who I am and what I love. I’m drawn to the absurd and the surreal, even though I don’t really watch much surreal or horror content myself. But in writing, there’s something about those elements that feels true to life. Reality often blurs the line between what’s real and what’s imagined, especially if you have an active imagination. Sometimes you wonder, “Did that just happen, or did I make it up?” I love leaning into that ambiguity. It was genuinely fun to write. It just felt right.

How did you make your art financially sustainable, and what advice would you give to others trying to do the same?

I have kind of a big answer to this, and I’m not sure my way is necessarily the best way. I don’t think everyone can—or should—live with the level of uncertainty I do. That whole “flying by the seat of your pants” thing isn’t for everyone. Personally, I do a variety of things. I write books, of course, but I also have a Substack that I put out twice a week, no matter what. I take on brand consultancy and commissions, do online work, and if I take copy jobs or modeling gigs, they’re always tied into my poetry or larger creative projects—manifestos, essays, that kind of thing. I still act, I write screenplays. It’s a lot of different lanes.

I also work faster than is always comfortable, but that’s just the reality of the economy we’re in. For those of us trying to make writing financially viable, most of us are doubling, tripling, quadrupling our workload. It’s not like you get a book advance and you’re set. That’s just not how it works. So the advice really depends on who you are and what you’re willing to do. I know writers who work full-time jobs and come home to write. That stability works for them. For me, I’ve never really had that kind of stability—not growing up, not now. I’ve learned to live with more uncertainty than most people probably could. I plan month to month, do what I can creatively, and find ways to make it work. But none of this is easy. We’re all doing this in the hope that it will evolve, that we’ll build up a body of work we can live off of, support each other through, and put something meaningful into the world. Something that feeds others, and also feeds us… But if you want to tap into yourself and your well is dry because you can’t afford your rent, it’s really quite tough. It’s a huge test, this career. It’s wonderful. I feel very honored. And it’s a huge test.

When you write on Substack, do you go through any editorial process or share it with anyone before publishing? Or do you send it straight to your readers?

Oh, typos and all, it’s out there. For me, it’s about strengthening the art of non-perfectionism. I’m not really a perfectionist anyway; I just make myself do the work. I think it’s more important to have a connection with my readers. No one’s grading it. It just goes out to all those people… It’s more about being honest about what’s happening in the moment.

If you’re focused on honesty, you can’t really get it wrong—because it’s always changing, and this isn’t a book. I don’t feel the need to be perfect. I feel the need to strengthen the communication and keep going. I’m about to write one now because I realized I haven’t done anything for tomorrow. Maybe I’ll do it in the morning. Sometimes I write it the same day and just press send.

That’s such valuable advice because perfectionism really holds you back.

It really does. You strangle your ideas before they’re born. And sometimes you need the momentum of the thing to take you into an area that you never imagined. So you have to start.

How do you navigate the tension between authenticity and the image that social media projects?

The older I get, the more I feel compelled to debunk that illusion for people. As writers, we have to sell books, and that often means being on Instagram. But I try not to play into the illusion too much, because it just isn’t true. The reality is that this work involves a lot of graft, a lot of uncertainty, and a lot of labor that goes unpaid. Honestly, about 80% of it is free.

What is next for you now?

I’m trying to be intentional right now. Not necessarily with the book itself, because I believe that once it’s out in the world, its destiny is no longer mine to shape. I just hope people are enjoying it. But what I am trying to do is sit in the present moment. It’s easy for me, especially after releasing something, to immediately shift into, “Okay, what’s next?” I always have new ideas swirling. But I’m making an effort to slow down a bit, to take in what this moment actually means.

Do you read other writers while working on a project, or do you prefer to quiet those voices to stay focused?

I’m definitely always reading, mostly because writing takes so long. I usually write in the mornings, before any outside influence has a chance to creep in… Lately, I’ve been drawn to academic papers, which is funny because I don’t consider myself an academic. I’ve been diving into work on neuroscience and poetry, and where the two intersect, and I find it incredibly compelling. I read pretty widely and like to dip in and out of different books all the time.

Do you have any rituals that help you create?

Only that I write in the morning, just after waking, when I’m still half in the dream state. That’s when I feel clearest, like everything is glittering and possible.