David Haynes’s latest book, Martha’s Daughter: A Novella and Stories (McSweeney’s 2025), is extraordinary. Not only does it feature some of his most beloved short fiction from his esteemed career, but it also opens with a wallop of a new novella, the title story of the collection. In this conversation over email, we discussed a range of topics surrounding art, craft, political fiction, and how to build a life as a writer. Haynes was my MFA advisor at Warren Wilson College years ago and I’ve been a huge fan of him and his writing ever since. When I saw him read at a recent event in North Carolina, I jumped at the chance to ask if I could interview him about Martha’s Daughter. What follows is the happy result
The author of seven novels for adults and five books for younger readers, David Haynes is an emeritus professor of English at Southern Methodist University, where he directed the creative writing program for ten years. Between 1996 and 2024, he taught regularly in the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College. His most recent novel is A Star in the Face of the Sky. Haynes also founded Kimbilio, a community of writers and scholars committed to developing, empowering and sustaining fiction writers from the African diaspora and their stories. He currently serves as the Chair of their board.
Karen Tucker: I know I should probably be polite and lob a softball of a first question as a warmup, but after reading your latest barnburner, Martha’s Daughter, I want to ask you everything in the world about writing, all at once. I’ll take a deep breath and start with voice. My goodness, how do you do it? How do you create such distinct and memorable voices over and over in this collection? Is it something you were always good at, or did you teach yourself along the way, and if so, how?
David Haynes: Well, first, thanks for the appreciation of the voices in the book. I’ll think this is a more on the “squishy” ball side (said the man pretending not to understand the metaphor). My stories almost always spring from character—often enough from a voice that starts telling me their troubles. In fact, some of the most challenging stories I’ve written have arisen from imagining a circumstance that intrigues me. Alas, until a character starts inhabiting that situation, the story won’t go anywhere. Needless to say, the flip side of that is also true: In my head there’s an entire rep company of characters waiting for the right circumstance to set them in motion. It’s a package deal, I guess.
KT: Your fiction is also so funny! When I heard you read an excerpt of the title story several months ago, within half a minute the packed house was roaring with laughter. For those who aren’t yet familiar with it, “Martha’s Daughter” is a story about, among other things, a woman whose overbearing mother has just died––certainly an unexpected vessel for so much fun. Can you share a little about deploying humor in fiction?
DH: All writers are to a large extent held hostage by their sensibility, which alongside our natural language, and the stories we are given to tell, are the things that comprise our voices. The origin of sensibility? Do we really want to go down the nature/nurture rabbit hole? I mean, I’ve met some pretty serious-minded toddlers and heard parents respond to criticism of their children’s attitudes by saying, “They were always like that.” On the “nurture” side, I’ve always been an outsider, sometimes by choice, sometimes not. Good comedy necessitates being able to situate oneself outside what one is observing to appreciate the absurdity and silliness of the stuff of everyday life. I’ll add that I almost never think about being “funny” when I’m doing the work, and I have had the unfortunate experience of not realizing something is hilarious until I’m at a podium reading it and find myself unable to get through a sentence because it cracks me up. One other quick note about comedy and humor: It’s deeply dependent on the rhythm of the prose, and flow of the language across the page. If it’s not working, often you simply must rewrite the entire passage.
KT: One of the many bangers in this collection is “Dear Daniel Davis, Or How I Came to Know Jesus Christ as My Personal Lord and Savior.” An epistolary narrative, it features a woman serving a multi-year sentence in prison whose psychiatrist has tasked her with writing a letter to her son. It’s a powerful example of your genius with voice, and also how a character’s circumstances shape that voice. The wonderful complication of this story is that Keisha knows her doctor will read the letter, so while she’s writing to her son Daniel, she’s also writing to Dr. Marianne, and––as much as anyone––she’s writing to and for herself. My question is what advice do you have for writers who want to write about circumstances they might not have experienced? What are some of the pitfalls we need to watch out for, and what additional demands do these stories ask of writers?
DH: I’ll begin with a confession: This story began life as a chapter from my previous novel A STAR IN THE FACE OF THE SKY, and one of the reasons that novel took a long time to create was figuring how to write this letter from Keisha. The existence of both the letter as well as Keisha’s various pathologies were a given in the original conception of the novel. The missive was intended to appear very late in the book—as I recall, it was the penultimate chapter in the early drafts—so while completing the rest of the novel I spent A LOT of time worrying about creating this piece. I found myself mired in a pitfall that I regularly warn undergrads about: medicalizing their characters’ problems. My students had a penchant for giving their characters troubling diseases, over explicating them, and then debating, for example, the proper placement of stents or the specific diets of anorexics. I’d remind them—as eventually I did myself—that it doesn’t matter exactly how much fluid was in the IV bag; instead focus on what the character is thinking and feeling and experiencing as the medication flows into their veins.
I love epistolary fiction, and I love the ways that formal restraint of any kind puts pressure on the writing. As you note in your question, this letter—like all letters in fiction as well as in life—have many audiences, even if there is only one person to whom it is addressed. It makes for a delicious stew.
For me, a lot of doing this work is being aware, consciously or subconsciously of the array of ingredients that you find in the bowl. You stir them around and let the flavors do their thing. Circling back, after years of worrying about what exactly was wrong with Keisha, in the end I never diagnosed her. I just let her exist and to try to connect with her son in the best way she can. The final irony: early readers of the novel convinced me that the letter, however compelling, was an unnecessary digression that stole focus from the rest of the novel. Sometimes these large excisions can become their own things. I’m glad this was true for Keisha.
KT: Dialogue is also something I have to ask you about. Not only are your characters’ conversations so much fun to read and hear, but you write them with such a wonderful level of detail they feel like they’re playing out before you. For example, your characters are always doing something specific and memorable when they talk. They’re not sitting at a kitchen table exchanging earnest ideas, no, they’re driving to a funeral home, or trying on designer dresses at the mall, or buying chocolate donuts before heading to the polls. In my experience, dialogue is one of the biggest challenges fiction writers face––so what can you share about crafting scenes between characters that are fresh and vivid, but also have the sharp and pleasurable ring of truth?
DH: Ah, thanks. I’ve been told this since the beginning of my career, which is also precisely how long I’ve been dodging the question.
One of the things I’ve learned from being in the classroom for so many years: the hardest things to teach are the things that come easiest the to you. Such things are so transparent that you don’t spend much time thinking about them.
Over the years, I’ve attended dozen classes and workshops and panels about writing dialogue. (The main thing I learned is that people like to talk about “Hills Like White Elephants.” A lot of people. A lot.). I’ll confess to waiting in these presentations for them to make these classes about me: to hear something that explains how my own dialogue comes to the page. And, yes, I get that the solipsism embedded in this answer aims a sketchy light on the entire enterprise of teaching creative writing. So maybe it’s better to just stick with the “Gosh, thanks, I don’t know how I do it” dodge.
I will say two things: First, I am pathologically nosy. I’ve been eavesdropping for as long as I remember. And: In considering good dialogue in fiction, it’s probably less useful to focus on what people are saying than why they are talking in the first place. Or at all.
KT: Earlier you wrote, “…I’ve always been an outsider, sometimes by choice, sometimes not.” I’d love to hear more from you on how the outsider experience plays a role in your art and craft.
DH: This is certainly as much a process thing as a craft thing. The world is a noisy place and people are messy. Even before I picked this path, I required regular respite. And if I couldn’t physically escape, I could daydream. I’ve been telling myself stories in my head for as long as I can remember. Once I joined the “professional” ranks, I already had a lot of experience rehearsing narrative. Whether an email or the chapter of a novel, I tend to have worked out what I am trying to say well before I open the laptop. How’s that for a positive spin? But seriously, I think people make a mistake when they see folks like me looking out the window at the party or at the table by ourselves at the restaurant. Frankly, a lot of us are busy doing other things.
KT: As a follow-up question, can you share your origin story as a writer? What drew you to this life? Were there any significant forks in the road where you might have gone in a different direction with your art but chose not to?
DH: Being a “creative” was always the path, but it’s true that every kid in every Kindergarten classroom is a singer and a dancer and a storyteller and a painter. Life (and schools!) do an excellent job of beating that out of us, but I guess that didn’t work with me. In sixth grade, for no reason at all, I opened up a floral TV tray, pulled my mother’s typewriter out of the closet and wrote a story. I took it to school and the teacher read it to the class. It was a big hit. I was hooked. So maybe writing chose me? I mean, it’s also the case that I’m too private for any kind of performance.
KT: You recently came home from your annual Kimbilio retreat. For readers who might not be familiar with Kimbilio, can you talk about this organization and its mission? For all of us, how was this summer’s retreat? How are Kimbilio writers approaching making art in the current political climate? And how can readers support Kimbilio and its artists?
DH: Following from what I’ve said earlier, writers work in isolation, but having community is also good: Peers who understand the challenges and your cultural references and what it’s like to struggle with this work. A lot of us simply didn’t have that in school and may not find it around us in our immediate neighborhoods. That’s where Kimbilio comes in. Kimbilio’s goal is quite simply to build and nurture a community of writers from the African diaspora.
Post retreat, I noted on the socials that words failed my attempt to describe the experience, but that has been true of all eleven retreats. It’s a whole thing. I’ve been working on how to capture it since 2013. There’s just a lot of power and joy and light whenever Kimbees gather. That’s as far as I’ve gotten.
I’ve been reading a lot of hot takes urging creatives of all stripes to step up their game in response to life under authoritarianism. In some cases, these calls blithely dismiss that for many of us, to paraphrase Langston Hughes, life ain’t never been no crystal stair. Getting underserved people fed, educated, housed, etc. has always been the mandate. For those lacking details on why this is true, I invite you to read our writers. In the end, in a time when history is being sanitized and the arts defunded, the act of documenting our lives and experiences remains revolutionary and dangerous. Which is the reason why the arts are under fire. I encourage anyone who wishes our work to continue to visit the Kimbilio website and throw a few dollars our way. We are present and intend to remain so. If not Kimbilio, another arts organization of your choosing.
KT: It’s so important, I’m going to repeat what you just said: “In the end, in a time when history is being sanitized and the arts defunded, the act of documenting our lives and experiences remains revolutionary and dangerous.” You can bet I’ll be repeating this to my students, too. It reminds me of a Toni Morrison quote we often talk about in our fiction workshops: “All good art is political!” This is from her 2008 author profile in Poets & Writers. Certainly, Martha’s Daughter is political, and visibly so. It examines power, inequity, and injustice through race, gender, income levels, and more. What advice would you share with writers who also want to write meaningful and engaging visibly political fiction? What particular craft traps and publishing traps spring up when a writer sets out on this endeavor? And what keeps you going as a writer, climbing up the stair with its tacks and splinters and bare floor?
DH: Treatises have already been written about the reasons that inward-facing psychological realism became the dominant literary form in this country, and I am certainly an admirer of many stories about various flavors of suburban angst. I imagine more than a few of those writers made a conscious choice to keep their stories safely apolitical. Which is, of course, also a political choice. I’ve read thousands of pieces of draft fiction and I can count on one hand the pieces that reflected the lives of people living paycheck to paycheck. Certainly, the erasure of the lives of the working class, people of color, LGBTQ people, and lots of others who live outside the range of interest of contemporary culture had a hand in the situation this country finds itself in now. If the only representations of these communities focus on pathology, it doesn’t take much to convince the voters to throw them in camps and treat them like animals. So, perhaps that’s step one—to rethink what we mean by political writing. To me, it means the fact that my characters are never not aware that they are in and of this world.
The primary craft trap is sermonizing. That rarely works. A close runner-up is conceiving of your characters as stand-ins for various aspects of some issue one wishes to critique. The heartless wealthy banker, the long-suffering man of God, the starving urchin. Those Dickens novels practically write themselves—said the lover of Victorian fiction. But, yeah, we now live in a time where only the broadest satire can rely on archetypes to create their moral universes.
These days, it’s all in the structure—in a broad range of structural questions. Whose voice is allowed in the story? Which characters’ perspectives are excluded? How much “real estate” is offered to each element of the narrative? What are the small details in the world that quietly illuminate the story’s central concerns? In the best political fiction, the social or moral concerns of the world are not on the table to solve. They are neither a YA novel or a “very special episode” of sitcoms. They’re simply the fabric of the world that characters inhabit. The way that characters inhabit the world is where the magic happens.
I have to say that I think about being political in my fiction in the same way I think about dialogue. Which is to say, I don’t think about it. I just try to tell the truth on the page, and telling the truth isn’t a chore.
KT: I’m smitten with the image of sixth-grade you, typing out your story on that floral TV tray and reading it to the class the next morning. All the stories and books you’ve written since then, the books you’ve read, the many students you’ve worked with. Can you share some titles that have had a notable influence on you and your writing? And what have you read lately that you’re still thinking about?
DH: Am I allowed to say Bewilderness by Karen Tucker? I’m not? Okay. Because, you know, that’s part of the problem I have right now. My former MFA students and the Kimbilio Fellows are pretty regularly turning out great books––say nothing of my colleagues who I’ve taught with over the years. Can I mention one without the others? And heaven forbid I skip all those fine writers and name some other wonderful writer, who I’m, let’s say three-degrees of separation from instead of two. But here’s more of a six or seven degree: The book that continues to knock me out, and the one I would teach over and over again if I could is A Tale for the Time Being by Ruth Ozeki. It’s a structural miracle of a book: puzzles within puzzles and enough rabbit holes to last a lifetime. It’s the sort of book that my makes my brain very happy.
KT: Thank you so much for talking to me about Martha’s Daughter, your art, and your process. It’s been a joy and an honor. Last question: what are you up to now?
DH: Now—well, I continue to mess around with drafts of two different novels. By “mess around” I mean I think about one, and then I think about the other. Rinse and repeat. One of these days, one or the other will take off. Or another project will jump in the queue. I sort of feel like I’m ready for any of those things to happen.
David Haynes
David Haynes is the author of eight books for adults and five books for younger readers. He is an emeritus professor of English at Southern Methodist University, where he directed the creative writing program for ten years. From 1996 through 2024 he taught regularly in MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College. Several of his short stories have been read and recorded for the National Public Radio series “Selected Shorts.” His most recently new novel is A STAR IN THE FACE OF THE SKY, and in 2023 he published a 30th anniversary edition of RIGHT BY MY SIDE as part of the Penguin Classic series. His new book is a collection, MARTHA’S DAUGHTER: A NOVELLA AND STORIES. David serves as Board Chair for Kimbilio, a community of writers and scholars committed to developing, empowering and sustaining fiction writers from the African diaspora and their stories.