Feature :: In conversation with Avni Doshi
Me: I want to get into your craft, of course. There are so many sentences that I've highlighted in this book that really shook me. They land with this, like, cold, visceral shock, and you refuse to pull punches or, you know, soften the blow for the reader. So, is this intentional on the part of you as the author?
Avni: I know there are
some authors whose voice changes quite substantially from one book to the
other. And while I know my voice might be evolving and changing in ways I'm not
even completely aware of, I do think probably at some level this is just my
style.
There's probably some
kind of natural proclivity, but then at the same time, it's also just what I've
read, what I've been drawn to and what I've been attracted to, and kind of just
metabolising the writing of other writers that I love.
So whether that's
Javier Marías, whether that's Marguerite Duras, whether that's Ferrante,
whether that's any number of writers that I admire, I feel that just kind of
swimming in their language and you just metabolise it.
And I think there's
often a cadence and a rhythm there, and I think it also depends on the
particular narrator or the kind of consciousness of the narrator that I'm kind
of embodying as I write.
Avni: Oh God, one book is hard. You know, I always recommend A Heart So White by Javier Marías. You know, a lot of people like to start with his trilogy. I think it's quite intense to start with the trilogy. So I would always say, like, start with this.
I would also say,
like, I love Natalia Ginzburg. Her book, you know, if you want just a short
book that's just so brilliant, you know, you could read...
Me: How much time
do you give between drafts and editing?
Avni: It depends. This time I didn’t have so much time. I’d like to give as much time as possible, but I think you usually don’t have as much time as you would like. I also rely on my editors for that, of course, because sometimes they see something that I haven’t seen. But I’m quite aggressive with my red pen. Yeah, I’m quite aggressive.
Me: You know, I use
that read-aloud feature on MS Word. I listen to it at least five times, and
there are voices of different cultures. So you can hear their voice and see how
different readers might respond. I love that.
Avni: Oh, interesting. Okay, I didn’t know about that. I sit myself and read each sentence with my own voice until my throat hurts.
… But also… For me,
it’s important, like, not to share too much at the beginning.
Me: With whom?
Avni: With anyone.
It’s important at the beginning of the process, not to share really what I’m
working on too much.
Me: Even with your
editors?
Avni: Yeah. Like, I
might tell them, like, “Oh yeah, I’m working on a book about two women,” and,
you know, something, something, whatever. I might give them a few sentences.
For example, even my
main editor, my UK editor, who was sort of working with me on this, on The
First House in its early days, she knew, like, one or two things about the
book, but that was really it. You know, there were a lot of conversations I
wasn’t having.
Me: I totally
agree. I really understand, you know, because people ask me about this book,
and I was like, “I cannot say, because I need to write about it. If I tell you
my words, I won’t be able to write.” I totally get what you’re saying.
Avni: It's like
opening the oven too soon and letting the heat escape. I think that heat has to
stay inside. And so that's why I really think of the creative process as an
alchemical one. And a lot of what is taking place is mysterious to us, right?
It's invisible and mysterious to us.
Me: Dissecting the
end of a marriage on the page, right? It can feel like looking into an abyss. When
I was reading, I was reminded of this Nietzsche quote: “When you gaze into the
abyss, it gazes back at you.”
When you spend so
much time writing about these difficult experiences and hearing this very, you
know, pained voice, how do you come out of that?
Avni: I mean, I think, I guess writing a book changes you. I don't know, making a work of art changes you. As I said, to me, this is relational. So, it's the way meeting someone can change you. You know, having a new friend enter your life can change you. There is something relational that is happening.
So, I'm not able to
necessarily say exactly what that is. It's probably similar to the way time can
change you. You know, I'm not the same person at the end of writing the book
that I am at the start. But just the same way that any five- or seven-year
period can pass, and I'm not the same at the end of that.
Yeah. We're constantly
having collisions with the world, with people, with artwork, and that's
constantly shifting things within us.
