“Amazing,” I said, sitting back in my seat and shaking my head. “So what happened next?”
“I quit my job as soon as the prize money came in. It’s kind of neat that I can focus all my attention on writing now. At least for the next year or so. What about you? How did you get this gig? I know some graduates who are still struggling to get their foot in the door.”
I told him all about Angie and Sam, my internship, and then my full-time position.
“Wow, lucky break.”
“I know. Things are going so well for me at the moment.”
“I’m glad to hear it. You deserve it.”
“Thanks. I’m crossing my fingers for the Elliott Tate Award. I think Snowflake definitely has a good chance of winning.”
“So I’m guessing you’ve read it?”
I nodded. “It’s part of my job description. I loved it by the way.”
“You know, some of our conversations went into Snowflake.”
“Well, I had no idea you were the author, so you can imagine how freaked out I was when I was reading it.”
“Sorry.” He looked sheepish. “I actually didn’t think it would ever see the light of day.”
I waved my hand at him. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You’re not going to sue me?”
“The thought did cross my mind.”
The rain outside was slowing down to a patter. We ordered coffee and a basket of fries. The café was now almost empty on account of the bad weather. It was also an odd time of day—too late for lunch and too early for dinner. The dull light from the gray sky lending a quiet ambience to the room, a slow, lazy tempo punctuated by the faraway clatter of plates and cutlery.
“So I suppose we should start the official interview.”
“Sure.”
“Do you mind if I record this?”
“Not at all.”
I pulled my phone from my bag and placed it on the table between us. Then I tapped the Voice Memos app and sat back in my seat.
“Why don’t you tell me more about the book? Why did you choose Wisconsin as the setting? Have you ever been there?”
“No, I haven’t been there. I always imagined a stark backdrop, and I suppose Wisconsin automatically puts you into that landscape. I liked the idea of setting it in winter, the bleakness of it.”
“I really love the ending. It was poetic. That sense of isolation Emily felt walking into the snowstorm. She thought that everything she had done would be covered over by the snow and her footprints would disappear from the world along with everything that had ever validated her existence. Then—and you wrote this beautifully—we follow the single snowflake as it makes its slow, hypnotic descent down to land on Emily’s cheek and melt into a single teardrop. It felt like at that moment, every snowflake in that field was a teardrop and the whole world was crying for her.”
“I knew you’d get it. When I finished the book, I wanted to call you. I would have if I hadn’t deleted your number from my phone.”
“I would have liked that.”
“I’m glad we’re here now. It feels important somehow.”
We were quiet for a few moments.
“Are you still with Duck?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
I flushed at the obvious disappointment in his voice. There was an awkward pause, so I hurried back to the interview. “You have many powerful scenes in Snowflake. Aside from the ending, I love the scene where Emily finally stands up to her father. I mean, it was heart-wrenching, but at the same time—triumphant.”
Rad sat back, a small sigh escaping his lips. “When Ana died, it was like a rupture. You know those scenes in the movies where something tears through an airplane and everything gets sucked through the void? Well, that’s what it felt like, only I was the plane, trying to keep my insides from spilling out. I know it sounds weird.”
My hand, resting under the table, reached for my rubber band. I knew Ana would come up in our conversation. It was inevitable since there was so much of her in the book. I had been steeling myself for this moment, and I gave myself a couple of sharp tweaks.
“Not at all.” He had just described exactly how it felt for me, the perfect analogy. But, of course, I couldn’t tell him that. Not without revealing my lie. It was something I had pushed so far down that I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone. Not even Ida.
“Grief is such a potent thing,” he continued. “That’s what I’ve learned. It’s like a hot iron; you can barely stand to hold it. But you don’t have a choice. The only way you can set it down, even if it’s temporary, is to refocus the energy elsewhere. I’ve only been able to do that through writing.”
“It’s amazing what people create using their pain. Work that is touched by melancholy has its own unique beauty. Even the word ‘melancholy’ is pretty, the way it rolls on your tongue. I think sadness adds something to literature that is unique. It’s an ingredient like . . .” I thought for a moment. “Like salt. Salt has that power to completely transform a dish. I think sadness has that same transformative effect in literature.”
“That reminds me of a story. A fairy tale, actually. It’s about this king who has three daughters. He was trying to work out whom he should leave his kingdom to, so he rounded them up and asked them to describe their love for him. The first daughter said she loved him like the way she loved her most precious jewels. The second described how much she loved him by referencing her most beautiful dresses. The third likened her love to salt, which pissed off the king because in comparison to fancy dresses and diamonds, salt is kind of underwhelming. So he sent her away. I don’t really remember what happens next, but I think somehow she begins working for a neighboring kingdom, catches the eye of the prince, and, then, as luck would have it, ends up marrying him. One day, she hosts a royal banquet, and her father is the guest of honor. She instructs the cooks not to use any salt in their cooking. So the king is sitting at the dinner table. He doesn’t recognize his own daughter because, well, it’s a fairy tale.”
I laughed.
“He takes a bite of his meal and spits it out,” Rad continued. “Then he says he would rather die than eat another bite of food that isn’t seasoned with salt. Of course, the princess reveals her true identity, and the king realizes the point she was trying to make before he threw her to the wolves.”
“I like that story,” I said.
“I knew you would.”
“I suppose salt has a negative rap, like sadness. We’re always told to watch our sodium intake or smile.”
He grinned. “I like that.”
“Actually, I kind of had this epiphany the other day.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You did?”
“Yeah,” I shook my head. “Forget it; it’s stupid.”