Hi it's me, the author of this unhinged Old Hollywood ghost story about 2 Vietnamese actresses doing whatever it takes to achieve their dreams in a time when it was almost impossible for women like them to even have dreams. Less than 3 weeks until this book releases, so I figured it's time to talk about some things, namely the backstory of why I wrote this.
Content warnings for death, grief, family trauma
I’m always a ball of anxiety with every book launch, but this story in particular means so much to me, written during a time of grieving and turmoil. It allowed me to escape to a different world where magic and dreams were just one incense stick and a dead grandmother away.
This is not something that I've talked about openly before but I wrote this book during and after my mother's death, and for many reasons, it was incredibly difficult to write.
But so are all books. Which was why I hesitated to talk about this too publicly. Yet with each book release, I feel this weird need to explain why I wrote what I did, and in a way, it helps me process what I went through (writing books can be a bit traumatic, y'know?) and understand stories a bit better, where they come from, and what they say about the people who write and read them.
My mother had had cancer for a while, so some would say that her death should not have been a surprise, but like all terrible yet inevitable events, it was not something our family expected until it happened, and then it happened like a riptide.
I'd been caught in one before as a kid--a riptide. I was a decent swimmer, even back then, but when one gets a hold of you, it doesn't matter. You get sucked into wave after wave, ones that grip your entire body and swing you about like you're a plaything, only coming up for enough air to survive the next wave--there's barely time to breathe much less to remember what you're supposed to do. Swim with the current? Which way was up or down? Were you supposed to struggle with all your will to live or relax and let it carry you out of danger? And the whole time, your eyes and nose and throat are burning from saltwater and it feels like you're drowning in your own tears, and you can't see anything but foam and darkness and the briefest glimpse of the shore in the distance where kids are still laughing and playing and people are still basking in the sun, unaware that you are slowly dying just barely within reach, if only they thought to look more closely.
The idea for the story had come before the devastating phone call that didn't seem real--hurry, get here now, she won't have much time left--so I did not set out to write something to deal with grief or death...but in the midst of all the turmoil, it turned out to be an anchor for the chaos.
This is how the story goes: On a random Monday evening, I miss a call from my dad but I don't think much of it because he should know by now how terrified I am of talking on the phone. But then on Tuesday, I get a slurry of texts from my sister, and then everything else happens so quickly. It doesn't feel real. I rearrange my life, reschedule things at work, childcare, book flights, lodging, logistics. I'm a numb, walking machine. I don't remember how to human. The longest layover of my life. Dog restrooms in the airport--absurdly adorable. I subsist on caffeine. I work on my book. I was still on deadline for a bunch of projects at once. I don't cancel a phone meeting even though I probably should have. I don't know what "should" means anymore.
I was so busy but being busy was good because it meant that I didn't have to confront my actual thoughts and feelings, and I surfed this wave of busy over the next few days as my mother passed and more questions popped up over her funeral details and then the rest honestly became a blur. I found myself at a weird disconnect of returning to my high school home and feeling like a child again, surrounded by my older siblings, aunties, cousins, the "real grownups"--yet I was asked to make decisions about things I definitely felt no authority over.
Afterward, I was on a pretty tight deadline for Silver and Smoke, which I could have asked to extend, but I used the book as an escape from dealing with my mental state. I told myself I needed to, and then I felt guilty for doing so because something told me I should have felt sadder, that I shouldn't be moving on so seemingly well, and then I felt guiltier for not feeling sadder, for being able to cope, for handling it all a bit too successfully...I was spiraling but rather than downward, I was being whipped back and forth, not knowing which way was up or down or how to get out of it. It was like being stuck in a riptide all over again.
One day, a friend texted to check up on me. "I have efficiently gone through the 5 stages of grief," I wrote while sobbing in the park on my lunch break. I got to know these 5 stages pretty intimately because I naively wanted to track my progress and see when I would be done and get to move on. But during this research, I learned that the 5 stages are not steps you can check off and be done with, but a spiraling of emotions that can happen at any time and in any order and can be replicated for the rest of your life, so that was fun. Learning things is so fun.
But then it was time to dive into edits for Silver and Smoke. Yay for an excuse to be busy and distracted again.
Drafting, for me anyway, often feels like a fever dream. I try to get things out as fast as I can in the first draft before the excitement for the idea goes away, and oftentimes when I read what I wrote, it feels like someone broke into my brain and slapped down words I don't remember writing at all.
As I read through the first draft, I was surprised by the amount of death and darkness that was in it. Why did this surprise me when the premise is: Two aspiring movie stars make a deal with a dead shaman and a ghost to achieve their dreams, only to discover the consequential price? Yet in combing through the story and taking it apart and piecing it back and solving problems and dealing with the character's emotional growth...guess what? I went through my own emotional growth. IMAGINE.
I thought I had successfully escaped my feelings, but I found instead that I had channeled them. I had felt guilty over this escape without realizing that there is no escape. I had been caught in the riptide thinking I was swimming up but really I didn't even have a clue which way that was, and had miraculously kept afloat just long enough for the current to carry me to shore.
In the end, it was the story that gave me a chance to process what I had been trying to escape, efficiently or not. Yes it's full of death and darkness, but it's also full of light and magic and family and empowerment. It helped me find my way out of the torrent. So hopefully in reading it, you'll find a bit of your own way through whatever riptide you might be facing.
I dedicated this book to my mom, who didn't live to see the inscription, but who had been so incredibly proud when I became an author, something she'd seen me work toward for most of my life. She would have been prouder still. So yea...this is for her, my mom. Con viết một cuốn sách khác nữa. I wrote another book. For her.