Q. Why did you choose to write about a mother investigating the disappearance of a daughter? A. My favorite suspense taps into our deepest anxieties, and clearly, this was one of my mine! I have a daughter the same age as Jules, and she has traveled frequently, often solo, on multiple continents, including places where you can’t easily track down a child. I can imagine nothing worse than having a child who goes missing — except, perhaps, thinking that you could have done more to find her. Q. This thriller takes place abroad, in Guatemala, a place you visited the year before you wrote this book. Was your travel experience similar in any way to Jules’s or Rose’s? A. It was very similar, from the wildfires to the warnings we received about not walking roads alone. I was contrary and wandered off by myself, anyway. A woman traveler had gone missing in Lake Atitlán just before my trip (and yet another would go missing a few years later). Even so, like my character Jules, I believe the best way to get to know a place is to spend time there, preferably alone, and whenever possible, to talk to people in the local language. Some locals voluntarily struck up conversations with me in Spanish about the loss of traditional access to their lakeshore, for example — the same beautiful lakeshore, owned by wealthy foreigners, that features in The Deepest Lake. Q. You’ve attended and taught at writing workshops in both academic and non-academic settings. Are they really as emotional and fraught as depicted in this book? A. There’s a range, but yes, I’ve rarely attended one that didn’t involve some level of tension and unhappiness. People are vulnerable in workshops, especially memoir workshops, where topics like illness and sexual assault are commonplace. Facilitators aren’t always aware of how fraught these situations can be or how much participants can struggle, both during the process and days or weeks after a workshop ends. Famous authors are not psychologists. They’re not always skillful teachers, either. The unhealthiest settings are ones in which workshop leaders goad people into confessing or writing about things they aren’t ready to write about, or betray trust by sharing sensitive personal details without permission. Ask anyone who has attended multiple multi-day workshops and you’ll hear stories. Q. You’ve mentioned publicly that you started reading more suspense during the pandemic. What do you think is the appeal? A. Whenever we’re stressed or distracted by real-world events, it can be hard to read, but I think suspense is a great antidote because it’s so immersive. It can be cathartic, too. Mysteries and suspense offer the reader an emotional experience and are propelled by characters with very clear wants and needs — like the need to solve a crime or discover the truth about a loved one. But I don’t need to feel stressed to enjoy a good crime novel. Give me a pool or beach and a suspense or thriller paperback, and I’m in heaven! Q. The book depicts memoir writing as emotionally risky. What’s your personal experience with the risks and the rewards? A. I do believe that writing about one’s life can be transformative and meaning-making, in the same way that therapy can be. The risky part comes in having that writing circulated and critiqued, especially in a group where there isn’t sensitivity or time to develop trust. A writer needs to feel some level of autonomy, not only in deciding what she shares, but in deciding what her story is. Even instructors with good intentions can inadvertently retraumatize a writer or nudge her away from the truth of her story. The strangest moments I’ve witnessed have come when a charismatic author — either male or female — is running the show. There’s nearly always at least one star-struck participant who gets emotionally and narratively lost in the process of trying to win the teacher’s approval (or get access to her connections). Q. Is there a part of you in Rose? Jules? Eva? A. Yes! Like Eva, I’ve done my share of teaching workshops and I’ve probably said the wrong thing or inadvertently quashed a writer’s spirit at times, because feelings do get hurt, even in ethically-run classrooms. Like Rose, I’d do anything to find the truth if one of my children went missing or was hurt by someone. Like Jules, I’ve felt a deep yearning for mentorship and direction — and a desire to live a life worth writing about. Don’t we all? | 