The Memoir Land Author Questionnaire #73: Lidia Yuknavitch
"Fear is the story we were fed to stop us. Make fear the portal—you have kindred souls on both sides."
Since 2010, in various publications, I’ve interviewed authors—mostly memoirists—about aspects of writing and publishing. Initially I did this for my own edification, as someone who was struggling to find the courage and support to write and publish my memoir. I’m still curious about other authors’ experiences, and I know many of you are, too. So, inspired by the popularity of The Oldster Magazine Questionnaire, I’ve launched The Memoir Land Author Questionnaire.
Here’s the 73rd installment, featuring , author most recently of Reading the Waves: A Memoir. -Sari Botton
Lidia Yuknavitch is the award-winning author of the memoirs Reading the Waves and The Chronology of Water, and the novels Thrust, The Book of Joan, The Small Backs of Children, and Dora: A Headcase. She is the founder of Corporeal Writing. Her TED Talk, On the Beauty of Being a Misfit, has over 4.5 million views. Chronology of Water has been adapted to film by Kristen Stewart.
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How old are you, and for how long have you been writing?
I am 61 years old. I started writing when I was about 26.
What’s the title of your latest book, and when was it published?
Reading the Waves: A Memoir, forthcoming February 4, 2025.
What number book is this for you?
Eleven.
How do you categorize your book—as a memoir, memoir-in-essays, essay collection, creative nonfiction, graphic memoir, autofiction—and why?
The book is being marketed as a memoir, probably because it has some life stories in it and it needs a place to live on bookstore shelves. I’d call it more of a meditation or an elegaic reflection on memory and the art and practice of writing. But there’s no shelf for that.
I became a writer through the portal of trauma when my daughter died the day she was born. That cataclysmic event horizon rearranged my DNA forever. The grief also opened up a portal to all my other wounds and traumas, which came rushing for like an ocean. I had to learn to be in relationship with ocean waves, so I became a writer/rider.
What is the “elevator pitch” for your book?
You know if I was in an actual elevator with someone I’d push the stop button. I’d bring cheese sandwiches and chocolate and wine. I’d say look, there are stories about things that have happened to me that I’ve carried around too long, like dead bodies I couldn’t figure out how to let go of. Maybe you have some stories like that in your body too. Let’s have a picnic and figure out how to rearrange and reconfigure stories inside storyspace. Let’s also trade clothes and wear them incorrectly. Let’s emerge from this elevator in completely different forms, like new animals, or new species. Let’s re-story ourselves.
What’s the back story of this book including your origin story as a writer? How did you become a writer, and how did this book come to be?
I became a writer through the portal of trauma when my daughter died the day she was born. That cataclysmic event horizon rearranged my DNA forever. The grief also opened up a portal to all my other wounds and traumas, which came rushing for like an ocean. I had to learn to be in relationship with ocean waves, so I became a writer/rider. This book probably got born from me aging into a self that is able to turn around and have a look at things. Dive down to the bottom of the ocean—the grief ocean, the joy ocean, the fear ocean, the beauty ocean, the trauma ocean—with the ability to pause. Reflect. Look around. See the reasons to stay down there. See the reasons to push back to the surface. See what I can bring with me that might help others.
What were the hardest aspects of writing this book and getting it published?
The hardest aspect of writing this book was laying down some stories I’ve been carrying in my body too long—which led to a quite mighty realization that I was in dire need of a more massive release ritual. So the hardest aspect is also the portal for change, growth, shapeshifting.
I think about publishing, what I want to say is that growing older inside the world of publishing is a tricky thing for women. I am grateful to have a phenomenal agent (Rayhane Sanders) who has lovingly and fiercely stood alongside me inside the odyssey.
How did you handle writing about real people in your life? Did you use real or changed names and identifying details? Did you run passages or the whole book by people who appear in the narrative? Did you make changes they requested?
I used real names for the most part, with rare exceptions. Yes, I ran passages and the whole book by a few people who appear in the narrative…a few people I wrote about are dead, so the story has some elegaic qualities to it. But really, my aim in this book was to open up storytelling space and ask questions about memory and bodies. So that real people appear in the story isn’t as important as questions like where might the story go if I stand in a different place than I did when the event happened? How does story space allow for rearrangements? Can we learn anything about living our lives—who we are and how we live—from the way literature moves? From story transformational spaces? How do beginnings and endings beget each other?
Who is another writer you took inspiration from in producing this book? Was it a specific book, or their whole body of work? (Can be more than one writer or book.)
Virginia Woolf, A Writer’s Diary and The Waves
Clarice Lispector, Água Viva
Jeanette Winterson, Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit
Gertrude Stein, Lectures in America
I actually carried their lines as if they were woven through storyspace.
My aim in this book was to open up storytelling space and ask questions about memory and bodies. So that real people appear in the story isn’t as important as questions like where might the story go if I stand in a different place than I did when the event happened? How does story space allow for rearrangements? Can we learn anything about living our lives—who we are and how we live—from the way literature moves? From story transformational spaces? How do beginnings and endings beget each other?
What advice would you give to aspiring writers looking to publish a book like yours, who are maybe afraid, or intimidated by the process?
Build a small cell of like-minded human creatures to accompany you on your journey. Take turns carrying heaviness. Take turns holding hands. Take turns lifting each other up. Take turns guarding the perimeter (think of Artemis or Joan of Arc). Take turns cuddling in the pillow fort. Cry if you must, wail even, rage away when you need to, but remember this: You are the only person on the planet who can tell the story the way that only you would. You are pure creativity. There is no system or game or gate or rule or law that can stop you from standing up in your own erotic force field with others. Fear is the story we were fed to stop us. Make fear the portal—you have kindred souls on both sides.
What do you love about writing?
Existing inside the imaginal. Talking to the dead. Finding touchpoints of pure creative and erotic source.
What frustrates you about writing?
The market. Capitalism. Patriarchy. Morons with money.
What about writing surprises you?
That it keeps yielding. That storyspace is ever expansive, horizonless. That storyspace welcomes me no matter what I bring to her doorstep, no matter what shape I’m in.
Does your writing practice involve any kind of routine or writing at specific times?
Dreamy afternoons and evenings. I do not have a routine, but I am all in on rituals—creating ritualized spaces to write within, casting magic spells before, during and after, cultivating trance, dancing with dreamvision, letting go of linear time. My writing practice moves the way ocean waves do: energy building underneath the surface, a surge upward, a crest, a massive roll, a dissipation. I wait for the waves. I’ve learned to trust that rhythm.
Build a small cell of like-minded human creatures to accompany you on your journey. Take turns carrying heaviness. Take turns holding hands. Take turns lifting each other up. Take turns guarding the perimeter (think of Artemis or Joan of Arc). Take turns cuddling in the pillow fort. Cry if you must, wail even, rage away when you need to, but remember this: You are the only person on the planet who can tell the story the way that only you would.
Do you engage in any other creative pursuits, professionally or for fun? Are there non-writing activities do you consider to be “writing” or supportive of your process?
NEWS FLASH (ha): swimming or being in or near any water. Also drawing and painting.
What’s next for you? Do you have another book planned, or in the works?
A new novel is forming in my body, or at least it might be a novel. It might be multimedia. I’ll have to ask better questions of them, invite them for a glass of wine.
This is wonderful! I am going to buy her books! this: "You know if I was in an actual elevator with someone I’d push the stop button. I’d bring cheese sandwiches and chocolate and wine. I’d say look, there are stories about things that have happened to me that I’ve carried around too long, like dead bodies I couldn’t figure out how to let go of." is a jewel among jewels.
Seeing Ludia Yuknavitch featured here pushed me over the edge to becoming a paid subscriber. I sense a kindred spirit and feel at home. And writing rituals--so important. Lit candles and crushed peanuts on my windowsill every morning invite jays, wrens, titmice, and words. Looking forward to Reading the Waves.