Behind the Scenes: On Havah
At some point during the six years I waited for Demon to sell, I randomly penned a single page in the voice of the earth’s first woman. I imagined her nearly 900 years old and near death, preparing at last to tell her full story. I’m not sure why I did this—I only remember her voice, warbled with age, as vivid in my head as my old Korean grandmother’s was the last time I saw her before her death.
And then I put the page away in a drawer where I kept scribbles and random story notes, and forgot about it.
In 2005, as my agent and I were negotiating the sale of Demon, my soon-to-be-editor asked what else I had. I remember looking blankly around, yanking that drawer open and fishing inside. “I have this…” I said, pulling out the fringed notebook page, which eventually became the prologue to Havah. Of course, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. A year later, Genesis commentaries, horticulture textbooks, books on ancient farming, early weapons, textiles, basket weaving, brick-making and early civilizations littered my floor alongside a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting.
I was fascinated with the emotional journey of Adam and Eve, with the potential for tension between the alpha Adam and his first son, the idea of seeing a first infant, the first death, the first enmity between human and animal and dysfunction in relationship.
But there was a problem. I was paralyzed by Demon’s early success, which had garnered rave reviews and award nominations in the first months of its release. And here I was, about to prove myself a one-hit wonder.
I chased Eve’s story in a dogged panic and overwrote the first draft by 67,000 words (about 260 pages). Somewhere toward the end, I called my friend Meredith.
“I can’t do this anymore. I’m so tired. I can’t get it out.”
“You’re almost there!” she said.
“I can’t—”
“Push! PUSH!!”
I whined, begged for some kind of creative epidural and went back to work, convinced I was birthing some literary monster.
Some time after Havah released with a starred review from Publishers Weekly, I realized I had learned a valuable lesson. I wasn’t sure what it was yet, but it had something to do with forests and trees and simply bearing down on the work.
In 2005, as my agent and I were negotiating the sale of Demon, my soon-to-be-editor asked what else I had. I remember looking blankly around, yanking that drawer open and fishing inside. “I have this…” I said, pulling out the fringed notebook page, which eventually became the prologue to Havah. Of course, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. A year later, Genesis commentaries, horticulture textbooks, books on ancient farming, early weapons, textiles, basket weaving, brick-making and early civilizations littered my floor alongside a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting.
I was fascinated with the emotional journey of Adam and Eve, with the potential for tension between the alpha Adam and his first son, the idea of seeing a first infant, the first death, the first enmity between human and animal and dysfunction in relationship.
But there was a problem. I was paralyzed by Demon’s early success, which had garnered rave reviews and award nominations in the first months of its release. And here I was, about to prove myself a one-hit wonder.
I chased Eve’s story in a dogged panic and overwrote the first draft by 67,000 words (about 260 pages). Somewhere toward the end, I called my friend Meredith.
“I can’t do this anymore. I’m so tired. I can’t get it out.”
“You’re almost there!” she said.
“I can’t—”
“Push! PUSH!!”
I whined, begged for some kind of creative epidural and went back to work, convinced I was birthing some literary monster.
Some time after Havah released with a starred review from Publishers Weekly, I realized I had learned a valuable lesson. I wasn’t sure what it was yet, but it had something to do with forests and trees and simply bearing down on the work.
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