Nicola Dinan, Bryan Moriarty and Wiz Wharton on first books, inspirations and London

Who better to ask these questions to than three new authors who have chosen to make our capital the backdrop for their debut novels? Nicola Dinan (Bellies), Bryan Moriarty (Sounds Like Fun) and Wiz Wharton (Ghost Girl, Banana) all join us on the opening night of our London Literature Festival to discuss this and many other facets and complexities of life as a newly published author.

But, impatient as we are, we couldn’t quite wait until then. And so ahead of the festival we caught up with all three to not only hear their thoughts on London as a literary backdrop, but also get the stories behind their debuts, what it feels like to send your writing out into the world, and whether writing had always been their calling.

Where did the inspiration for Sounds Like Fun come from? What prompted you to write it?

The inspiration came from a friend telling me about two people he knew in an open relationship, one of whom was delighted with their way of life, while the other was fed up and longing to be exclusive. A year or so later, I was sketching out some ideas for a romantic comedy, and I felt like the story of one side of an open relationship had lots of potential for humour and a dose of drama.

What do you think London offers as a backdrop to a contemporary novel that other cities perhaps cannot?

London is a pretty great place to put a character who is out of their depth and a bit lost, like my main character is at the start of the novel. The sheer size of the city means that it can feel overwhelming, impersonal and really bleak. At the same time though, there are thousands of mini-communities within the city, which create a sort of barrier against that bleakness, and in Sounds Like Fun, my character starts to become more aware of these communities, as his open relationship brings him into contact with new people.

How does it feel to send something you’ve put so much time and creative endeavour into, out into the wider world?

It’s a little nerve-wracking, but I’ve come to accept that not everyone will like the book, no matter how hard I’ve worked on it, and that’s not the end of the world. That said, I’m not on social media, and I never Google the book or my name, so I’m sort of protecting myself from too much pushback as well.

With this being your first novel, did you have an audience in mind when writing it, or were you writing for yourself?

I didn’t think too much about a target market or anything when I was writing the book, but I always had a reader in mind, and I tried to tell the story the way I’d share an anecdote or a piece of gossip with a friend; sharp, clear and funny.

Who are your own literary influences?

It’s a long list, so I’ll just share a few. David Sedaris was a bit of a revelation when I read him as a teenager – not just because of how funny and beautifully crafted his essays were, but because of the way he wrote about his relationship. I tried to bring the combination of petty arguments, shared experiences and simple but sincere acts of love to my fictional relationships. And then there’s Norah Ephron, whose novels, essays and screenplays seem to be written off the cuff, but are in fact beautifully detailed and precise.

Did you always want to be a writer?

I’ve been writing stories since I was very small, but I trained as an actor, and I still love performing. I’m at my happiest when I’m doing both, bouncing between the collaboration and immediacy of theatre, and the solitary, slow-burn satisfaction of writing.

Where did the inspiration for Ghost Girl, Banana come from? What prompted you to write it?

When I began Ghost Girl, Banana, it really wasn’t with the intention of writing a novel. I was still going through the quite traumatic loss of my mum and my sister and was in the throes of moving from London to Scotland when I discovered a box of my mum’s possessions, at the bottom of which was a series of floppy discs simply labelled ‘my story’. These turned out to be her diaries, a remarkably uncensored account of her life that she’d been keeping since her immigration to the UK in the early 1960s as part of the recruitment drive for the NHS. She had always been remarkably stoic about her experiences as a Chinese woman thrown into this very different culture and so reading the diaries was a bit of an epiphany, allowing me to feel I finally understood who my mum had been. 

I decided I wanted to write something in honour of both her and all the other hidden women from that time who contributed so much to the UK, even as they were derided for their differences. It was a tribute, more than anything; a love letter to thank her for all the opportunities and cultural richness she had given to me as a woman of diverse heritage. It was only as I started writing that I realised how much our respective journeys converged in terms of identity and that search for belonging which led to the idea of telling the stories of a mother and daughter in tandem.

What do you think London offers as a backdrop to a contemporary novel that other cities perhaps cannot?

What has always fascinated me about London is that for such a densely populated place, with such a varied demographic, we still exist here more as subsets than a collective community. There’s still a lot of tribalism in London, whether that’s the territorialism of the north/south river divide, or the us versus them mentality of wealth and/or diaspora which provides real grist for a writer.

I have also experienced incredible kindness, pride and joy here which I’ve not found in other cities, which I think is symptomatic of it being so densely and variously inhabited. When you have a population with such experiential richness, you can’t help but live in hope of it teaching and engendering tolerance and empathy. And, of course, that richness informs its output in terms of culture and history and innovation and the stories that come from that.

How does it feel to send something you’ve put so much time and creative endeavour into, out into the wider world?

Writing, whether you’re published or not, is always an act of vulnerability, or it should be if you’re aiming to be authentic. But being published adds an additional layer to that because you’re going from having a certain level of control to having almost none in terms of how your work will be received. The power shifts, firstly to your marketing team and then to your audience and that can be hard for a debut author to get their head around, because you’re suddenly swimming in a really oversaturated pond where not everyone is represented equally and also where not everyone will like what you do. This is why it’s so important to write something that you’re proud to have out in the world, irrespective of how it might perform commercially, whilst remembering that you’ve already beaten considerable odds to get here. 

With this being your first novel, did you have an audience in mind when writing it, or were you writing for yourself?

As I said, Ghost Girl, Banana was really written in tribute to my mum and so from the start I was very much focussed on doing her story and her experiences justice, albeit through fiction. I think this also helped me write with a sense of nothing to lose, which is the unique gift of a debut author. There was no expectation there and therefore no cynicism to the process!

The most fantastic consequence of that, however, is all the messages I’ve had from people telling me how seen they felt in the novel, and not just readers from the east and south east Asian community it depicts, but anyone who has struggled to move to a new culture and felt displaced and in limbo. Knowing I’ve written something specific and yet universal is genuinely the highest praise I could have hoped for, especially as growing up I never really saw myself represented in the mainstream fiction space and this was always something I longed for.

Who are your own literary influences?

As a teenager, I was very inspired by James Baldwin and Cormac McCarthy who opened my eyes to how bold and courageous the act of writing could be. These days, I’m as equally excited by authors like Louise Kennedy as I am by more experimental writers like Sayaka Murata and Mona Awad. Their voice and narrative style are all very different but collectively they communicate the human (especially the female) condition with astounding authenticity and emotional resonance.

Did you always want to be a writer?

I knew from a very young age that I wanted to be involved in something creative, but wasn’t sure whether that would be through writing or music. I was quite lonely growing up and both helped me through some rough times in my life – I wrote some really bad songs! Having a really passionate English teacher was what probably tipped me towards writing, although my mum never really thought it was a viable career option. Seeing how long it took me to get here – via a rather varied and spotty CV of waitressing, zoo-keeping, and working in music royalties – she may have been right!

Where did the inspiration for Bellies come from? What prompted you to write it?

I wanted to capture the turbulence of both transitioning and being in your early twenties. I also wanted to offer the perspective of a character who isn't trans, but instead observes their partner’s transition. It felt like a story I hadn’t seen, and transness has always been an interesting prism through which I view other aspects of life: extraordinary periods of change, how we grow apart from other people, fundamental incompatibilities in relationships.

I’d been writing short stories (including one which Bellies is based on), hoping that a prestigious journal would publish one, earning me the necessary qualification to start writing an actual novel. Sadly, nobody wanted them, and it started to feel silly to wait for permission to write the book I wanted to.

What do you think London offers as a backdrop to a contemporary novel that other cities perhaps cannot?

This is a tricky question. When I was writing my novel, my US editor thought I must’ve lived in New York, because the chapters set there felt very real to her. I haven’t – I’ve literally been once. I think it was reflective of how young people living in cities, particularly of a certain class, perhaps share more than they realise with their counterparts in other places. I recognise London and New York might feel similar, but I think it applies to other cities too (I grew up in Hong Kong and Kuala Lumpur). On that basis, I’m almost reluctant to admit there’s anything too unique in London’s offering (sorry). 

At the same time, I admit that Bellies feels like a very ‘London’ novel. The characters are racially diverse. The novel discusses class in a way that feels quite specific to the UK. The universal acceptance of Ming’s transition among her friends and family, as well as the openly queer cast, are also a function of London’s social and political culture. It’s undeniable that relocating Tom and Ming’s base to elsewhere would’ve changed the fabric of the novel, beyond superficial things like taking the Northern line to work.

How does it feel to send something you’ve put so much time and creative endeavour into, out into the wider world?

It’s exciting. Writing can be so private. Having a book in shops makes my career as a novelist feel much more material. The book tour was so rewarding, it was the first time I was able to talk about the book in a way that extended beyond small talk at dinner parties, and it took me as far as Tbilisi. At the same time, I worry a lot. The book is a project close to my heart, but as a result of its release it's transformed into a product. I can’t help but fret over whether people are buying it, reading it, burning it.

With this being your first novel, did you have an audience in mind when writing it, or were you writing for yourself?

I wrote Bellies for myself, but I’m a reader as much as I am a writer, and so I knew I probably wasn’t alone in my tastes! Writing entirely for other people would've been challenging. It would’ve impeded the development of an authentic or distinctive voice – for me, at least. I also left Bellies knowing it was the novel I wanted to write and would like to read, which has made the idea of criticism much easier to swallow.

It’s also hard to conceive of what audience I would’ve written for. Sure, the girls, the gays and the theys, but even that demands a reductive approach to a group with really distinct reading habits. Audiences can also surprise you. I wouldn’t want to limit myself from the get-go. Bellies has done quite well with a lot of boomers. Who knew?

Did you always want to be a writer?

Yes, although it was hard to imagine it as a genuine possibility. I’ve always liked to read, but didn’t know any writers growing up – I sort of experienced it as the dead dream of a lot of wistful parents. Because of that, it almost felt childish to want to be an author, similar to a 10-year-old saying they want to be a pop star or astronaut.