FALLEN fans are a very passionate and vocal bunch. Did you write Teardrop anticipating what they’d want, and if so, do you think they’ll be pleased?
Fallen fans are so phenomenal it would be impossible for me to write a new book without them in mind. When I first started studying writing and taking workshops, the general consensus among my teachers and classmates seemed to be that it was wrong to write for anyone but yourself. I believe in the idea that writers must only write the stories they want to tell (as opposed to, maybe, the stories they feel they should tell), but I also believe that knowing and considering your audience can make your writing stronger. My readers push me to be a better, more detailed and conscientious writer all the time. Their questions inspire me and allow me to take risks. Because I have been lucky enough to interact with so many of my readers, they stay with me when I write. I’ll finish a scene and hope the girl in Memphis, the boy in Sydney, or the book club in Bogotá will like it.
Where do you do your best thinking?
There’s a secret trail behind my neighborhood that is almost always empty. I’ve always taken my dog—and now, my daughter—up for a hike in the hills every morning before I write. It requires some trespassing, but that’s half the fun, and on a clear day, you can see snow in the mountains to the east and a shimmering ocean to the west. It’s L.A. at its finest. The setting is stunning, but equally important is the intention of this simple ritual. Thinking through story is just as important as writing story. Staring into space is as important as typing words, as long as the staring leads to typing.
My goal each morning is to compose the first paragraph of that day’s chapter before I get to the top of the hill. The first paragraph has to do the hard work of establishing the emotional pitch of the chapter. Usually I know what my characters have to do in that day’s scene, but I don’t know how they feel about it—and emotion determines everything about the way the story is told. So I ask myself questions like … how much sleep Eureka got the night before, why she’s chosen the clothes she’s wearing and whether she feels comfortable in them, what her biggest fear is on that particular day, and what she’d rather be doing than what I’m going to subject her to. By the time I come down the hill and return to my computer, my mind is deep in the emotional world of the story, and—on a good day, anyway—the rest of the chapter flows out of the first paragraph.
Opening Teardrop from Ander’s point of view gives the reader a unique perspective when approaching the rest of the narrative. Was this always where you wanted to start the book—if so, why? If not, can you share an alternate beginning?
I really value the space a prologue opens between its pages and the first chapter, the way it comments on something essential that can’t be said directly in the body of the novel. At first I thought I’d open Teardrop with the flashback scene of Eureka crying as a young child, being warned by her mother to never cry again (which ultimately became chapter 3). That scene feels like the answer to so much—even though it gives very little away.
But when I started writing, I was having trouble finding Eureka’s voice. I had been writing in Luce-person for a couple thousand pages, and the shift was difficult. But I remembered one of the ways I used to unlock Luce’s voice when I felt distant from her: I would write the same scene from Daniel’s point of view. Daniel’s love for Luce often let him see things about her that I couldn’t see at first. If I could get inside Daniel’s mind, I could access Luce. So I tried something similar with Teardrop. I wrote Ander’s voice to find Eureka’s. I fell in love with Eureka through his eyes.