things that we do to each other and give insight into why we do them.
What other writers are you loving lately? Any thriller writers you’re into or any other genres?
I’ve been reading BIPOC authors this year. I was blown away by the compact art in My Sister, the Serial Killer by Oyinkan Braithwaite. I still think about that book every day. I could not accomplish what Oyinkan did in that book; she told a complex story with few words and it was powerful. Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia was a favorite this year—let’s go, women who write horror! And I would highly, highly recommend The Girl with the Louding Voice by Abi Daré. I’m not sure there’s been another book in my lifetime that has made me feel so many things.
Do you have any must-have routines or rituals as a writer that help you focus?
There are things I can’t have: obligations. Obligations crush any desire to create. If I know I have to be somewhere or do something, I can’t focus. I need to be able to wander in and out of my office at leisure to type a hundred words here or there, and I need to know I don’t have anywhere else to be. So when I dive into a book, I become largely unsocial and unresponsive to friends and events. I guess that’s how writers end up alone.
Can you tell us anything about what you’re working on next?
Yes, it’s going to be another unique story line, but this one is less cerebral than The Wives and The Wrong Family. It’s instinctive and fast-paced—visceral.
I’m writing about a hunted woman who is hiding in plain sight. If you hunt a woman for long enough, she will evolve to be the stronger thing. My new character is the badass we need right now.
The Wives
by Tarryn Fisher
1
He comes over on Thursday every week. That’s my day, I’m Thursday. It’s a hopeful day, lost in the middle of the more important days; not the beginning or the end, but a stop. An appetizer to the weekend. Sometimes I wonder about the other days and if they wonder about me. That’s how women are, right? Always wondering about each other—curiosity and spite curdling together in little emotional puddles. Little good that does; if you wonder too hard, you’ll get everything wrong.
I set the table for two. I’m a little buzzed as I lay out the silverware, pausing to consider the etiquette of what goes where. I run my tongue along my teeth and shake my head. I’m being silly; it’s just me and Seth tonight—an at-home date. Not that there’s anything else—we don’t do regular dates very often at the risk of being seen. Imagine that...not wanting to be seen with your husband. Or your husband not wanting to be seen with you. The vodka I sipped earlier has warmed me, made my limbs loose and careless. I almost knock over the vase of flowers as I place a fork next to a plate: a bouquet of the palest pink roses. I chose them for their sexual innuendo because when you’re in a position like mine, being on top of your sexual game is of the utmost importance. Look at these delicate, pink petals. Do they make you think of my clit? Good!
To the right of the vaginal flowers sit two white candles in silver candlestick holders. My mother once told me that under the flickering light of a candle flame, a woman can almost look ten years younger. My mother cared about those things. Every six weeks a doctor slid a needle into her forehead, pumping thirty cc’s of Botox into her dermis. She had a subscription to every glossy fashion magazine you could name and collected books on how to keep your husband. No one tries that hard to keep their husband unless they’ve already lost him. I used to think her shallow, back when my ideals were untainted by reality. I had big plans to be anything but my mother: to be loved, to be successful, to make beautiful children. But the truth is that the heart’s desire is a mere current against the tide of nurture and nature. You can spend your whole life swimming against it and eventually you’ll get tired and the current of genes and upbringing will pull you under. I became a lot like her and a little bit like me.
I roll the wheel of the lighter with my thumb and hold the flame