In We’re Alone: Essays (Graywolf, Sept.), novelist Edwidge Danticat reflects on creativity, family, and Haiti.
The title of your collection references the special relationship authors share with their readers. How is that relationship central to the book?
That relationship has always been central for me as a reader. When I was a child in Haiti, I was surrounded by lively storytellers and enjoyed being an audience member in that setting, but the first time I was given a book, it felt like the most intimate relationship with story that I’d had. You can sit in a corner with a book and it’s just you and the author, and that’s something that’s carried me throughout my whole life. The title is meant to honor that relationship, that special feeling of being tucked away with a book, that feeling of being alone together.
How do you think about structure when crafting an essay collection?
I wanted these essays to flow into one another, to show that it’s all an ongoing conversation. One thing that was very important for me was this idea of a person exploring and thinking about the world from where they write while also thinking about things beyond the desk. How do you frame that? How do you put that together? I think that’s always the challenge faced by writers. One of the beauties of the essay is that it allows you to figure out what you think. When the collection is done, it doesn’t mean you have a conclusive answer, but at least you’ve explored something more deeply.
You’ve written essay collections, novels, memoirs, and children’s books. What do essays allow you to do that other forms don’t?
This will sound a little strange, but the format allows me to scare myself. It allows me to push past a certain boundary and find beautiful things in the resulting discomfort. I consider myself a private person, yet at the same time when I’m writing these sometimes intimate things, it just feels like I’m trusting the reader. It pushes me beyond my comfort zone in a way that I feel brings me to this other space in writing where I can dig deep, where I’m extremely vulnerable.
Your mother is a major presence in this collection, but you mention that she never wanted you to write about her. How do you balance your artistic aims with the wishes of others who may not want their story told?
It’s something I’ve always struggled with. For my book Create Dangerously, for example, there was one essay where I had to negotiate with an aunt of mine and said, “What if I change your name?” Because ultimately I’d rather have my relatives in the essay collection. I think for a lot of writers, if you write memoir, there’s always that negotiating of respecting people’s spaces and lives, and you’ll never get it fully right.
