As we do at the very beginning of every year, this week we’re offering you an assemblage of favorite questions and responses from the previous year’s fifty-plus interviews between reviewers and authors. Hopefully, you’ll find a few nuggets of wisdom to help make 2026 a year of personal gains and growth.

Reviewer Meg Nola Interviews Benoît Gallot, Author of The Secret Life of a Cemetery: The Wild Nature and Enchanting Lore of Père-Lachaise

In the book you note how “most people still have a distorted vision” of Père-Lachaise, “based on preconceived notions and fantasies of all kinds.” What are some of those misperceptions and myths?

Many people have the preconceived notion that Père-Lachaise is no longer a functioning cemetery, or that burials are reserved only for a few famous people. However, it’s the busiest burial site in France! Each year, 6,500 cremations, 1,700 burials, and 1,300 scatterings of ashes take place there. Stonemasons, engravers, and gravediggers work every day to allow families to bury their loved ones and mourn their loss.

My teams spend a lot of time reminding people that, before being an open-air museum or a landscaped park, Père-Lachaise is above all a functioning cemetery. And the heart of my job is to keep this cemetery alive by reclaiming old, abandoned graves and redividing vacant plots so that new Parisian families can use them. This is also why we strictly prohibit all activities that could disturb the peace of the place and prevent mourning families from gathering: jogging, escape games, recreational activities, and so on.

Furthermore, Père-Lachaise is a very unusual place in Paris. As soon as you walk through the doors, you enter another world, a city within the city, made of aged stones adorned with various symbols and inscriptions of all kinds. This complete change of scenery gives some people the feeling of entering a new universe where reason no longer has a hold. Many people think that the place is haunted; not a week goes by without someone asking me if I see ghosts or paranormal phenomena. Some guides feed into these fantasies and even make a business out of them. But my experience as a curator has shown me that all these legends belong to the place, whether we like it or not! They fascinate people, some of whom even come to Père-Lachaise because of its myths. The tomb of Victor Noir is said to have the power to help infertile couples conceive; the tomb of Allan Kardec, founder of the Spiritist philosophy, will make your wishes come true; the tomb of Countess Demidoff allows you to inherit her fortune by spending a full year next to her coffin. I also regularly find traces of voodoo rites: a severed sheep’s head placed in the hollow of a tree; knives with inscriptions on the blades stuck in a grave; Barbie dolls wrapped in a bloody stocking and tied to a tree …

All of these stories and legends contribute to making Père-Lachaise a fascinating and extraordinary place.

*****

Reviewer Ryan Prado Interviews Frederic Durbin, Author of The Country Under Heaven

In what ways do you feel that the specter of Lovecraftian undertones, as found in your book—ancient creatures living amongst us, or very near, when the light shines just right—continue to serve as gripping bedrock for a story? How does a writer embrace those narratives while also bucking the trends of their longstanding incorporation into storytelling?

I heard the writer Peter Straub say something to the effect of, “We read and write fantasy because it’s the genre most capable of showing us life as it really is.” Probably others have also said more or less the same thing, and I think there’s a lot of truth to it. Straub has written a lot of horror, and we could add horror to his list. The fact is, we live in a world of horrors. I would even say it’s a world of supernatural horrors as well as mundane ones. Those horrors can take all sorts of forms—injustice, abuse, disease, mental illness, addiction, prejudice, corruption, cruelty, accidents, unfaithfulness, mortality … our human problems haven’t essentially changed in the history of our species. Monster stories give these horrors shapes; they help us externalize our horrors into something we can fight against or escape from. That’s why we’re still telling monster stories. The oldest tale we have that was first written in some form of English is Beowulf. The manuscript was written sometime between 975–1025 CE, and it may have been an oral epic for a long time before that. So it’s our oldest native English story, and it’s a monster story.

As storytellers, how do we avoid rehashing? How do we make these specters and creatures feel original? Well, we can put them in unexpected places, like the Old West. We can write about them vividly and well. People often don’t realize the value of good writing, but think about it: we’ve known for most of our lives that whales exist, right? We’ve read whale stories, and we wonder, “What could be new and interesting about a whale story?” But say that a whale blasts up out of the ocean fifty feet straight in front of you. You’re drenched with the spray. This tower of gray blocks the sun, and in that umbrage, you know the chill of mortality, of all that you can’t control in the world. The whale is a leviathan, impossibly long, colossal in girth, its hide crusted with barnacles. You look it in the eye, and the eye is looking back, right at you. The gargantuan shape hangs there above you, suspended in a frozen moment of uncertainty, a wonder you’ve never seen and probably won’t see again, and then it comes thundering, crashing down, and you hear its impact on the water like the Earth has been split to the core, and you hang on for dear life, and the boat you’re on is like a toy flung up by the sea, and you pray it will come down rightside-up, and that there will be something of it left to get you back to dry land. You can’t possibly think that whales are a tired concept ever again, because you’ve seen and felt one up close. Whether you’re writing about a dandelion seed or ice cream or heartbreak or the end of the world, that’s what good writing does. It allows you to see and feel things up close.

And finally, as writers, we need to remember that we’re always telling human stories, even if our characters aren’t human. If readers are engaged with characters going through things, they won’t care if they’ve run into your monsters before.

*****

Reviewer Suzanne Kamata Interviews Chyana Marie Sage, Author of Soft as Bones

In the US, and also, I believe, in Canada, there has been some backlash against DEI initiatives, ie, funding cuts for organizations and events that promote diversity, equity, and inclusion. Are you concerned about this? What do you think is the best way for authors and other creatives to respond?

I think it is our duty as authors and creatives to fight back against it. It was Louis Riel that said it would be the artists who gave us our spirit back, and I think now more than ever we need to use our voices and platforms as a way to fight back against these harmful cuts and ways of thinking. Certain people like to glorify the past, but when I look back, especially around colonialism, the harm that was committed was so severe that the ripples are still being felt—that’s exactly what Soft as Bones is all about. We have to be forward thinking when it comes to a lot of things—climate change, rectifying the harms committed in the past, fighting against homelessness, and lowering recidivism rates. It can be exhausting for us BIPOC to constantly be fighting these battles, but I can say it is a battle I will never stop fighting.

However, even amidst these cuts and backlash against DEI initiatives, there is a TON of excellent work being done by community members. We have the choice for what we tune into when it comes to social media, and when I log on to my social channels, I see incredible work being done in our communities. I think of Shayla Stonechild with Matriarch Movement. I think of Kinsale Drake with the NDN Girls Book Club. I think of Notorious Cree with his dancing. I think of Arsaniq Deer with her traditional Inuk tattooing. And that’s just to name a few, but the good work is still being done no matter who tries to silence it. I know us creatives will continue to work in that space.

*****

Reviewer M.W. Merritt Interviews La June Montgomery Tabron, Author of How We Heal: A Journey Toward Truth, Racial Healing, and Community Transformation from the Inside Out

Did you learn anything new in the process of writing How We Heal, either about our history or your own?

To be honest with you, I found the process cathartic, which I did not entirely expect. As you know, my memoir begins with my reflection on a childhood trauma that I had all but forgotten: losing contact with my best friend and next-door neighbor, Jenefer. Jenefer and I were very close, but then, one day, she and her family moved away—and I never saw her again. As an adult, I now know they left because of white flight, or the exodus of white families from racially-diverse, urban centers to predominantly-White suburban neighborhoods. But as a five- or six-year-old, I had no way of understanding why I was suddenly being separated from my best friend. Revisiting this early chapter of my own life, among others, helped me better understand that this was an experience from which I needed to heal—the kind of experience all of us would benefit from engaging with in our own lives.

*****

Reviewer Rebecca Foster Interviews Lauren Markham, Author of Immemorial

Recent years have seen the removal of many monuments representing outmoded principles. The book considers this as part of a more general reconsideration of the value and type of public memorials. What are some benefits and drawbacks of the iconoclastic movement?

A monument is something that is built at a particular moment in time, often to honor something or someone from the past. But time keeps moving, and so does (we hope) our relationship to and understanding of the past. I think it’s a good thing that we keep revisiting the past and interrogating the way we narrate history, what and who is lionized in the public sphere. But there’s also a problem of “we,” here. There is no one version of the past and there never will be. The past is a story we tell, and the nature of the story depends on who is telling it. As the toppling of Confederate monuments and the ensuing right-wing backlash make clear, we’re often divided on how we see the past and thus how we commemorate it. So a monument is a precarious object. Often, it’s a screen of projection.

*****

Reviewer Ryan Prado Interviews AJ Romriell, Author of Wolf Act: A Memoir

In the book’s foreword, “The Wolf Boy Overture,” you write, “I came out with a whimper, but I eventually learned to howl.” In what ways do you feel like you’re still howling, and how does that manifest for you now in terms of the way you create, be it through your writing, your photography, or your teaching?

I think we all have a journey of self-realization. We make and remake ourselves all the time, and every time we do, we have to find the courage to tell the world, “This is who I am, even if you’ll condemn me for it.” The funny thing about queerness is that you never really stop coming out. Each new person I meet, every interaction, every time I stand up in front of a new class of students, I have to calculate how I’m going to embrace my whole self with them. And while I refuse to lie anymore, I do have to consider whether I should mention my partner, tell the story of my diagnosis, explain about my religious trauma, or whatever else. I don’t think it’s easy for anyone to live life vulnerable, but my experience growing up in Mormonism, going through my divorce, contracting HIV—these things have taught me how important it is to speak up. To raise my voice. To refuse to be silenced again.

On a walk I took with a friend on the day I was diagnosed with HIV, I told her about my conversation with the doctor. My doctor had explained that medicine was good enough now that no one would ever need to know about my diagnosis if I didn’t want them to know. And I told my friend that while I understood the doctor’s words to be true, I wouldn’t let this become another “closet” I locked myself into. I was determined to write about it, to tell the story, to live proudly.

Taped on the wall behind my desk, there is a little piece of paper that reads, Speak. I keep it there as a reminder because, far too easily, I can fall back into old patterns. When I feel like I don’t belong, I start to minimize myself. But I’ve learned over the years to love not belonging because it means that the people who stay are the ones that are meant to. This is open-hand living. I try to walk through the world with my arms outstretched, palms open, letting whatever comes fall into my hands, and trusting that whatever is meant to stay will stay, and whatever is meant to fall away will fall away. To show yourself completely—the good, the bad, and everything in between—is a choice we have to make every single day.

*****

Reviewer Bella Moses Interviews Cecily Gilligan, Author of Cures of Ireland: A Treasury of Irish Folk Remedies

You also mention how traditional cures often rely on the physiological or spiritual will of the person being healed for success. What role do elements like belief, emotion, and mental health play in these traditions? For the people practicing and receiving cures, what is the relationship between folk healing and religious practice?

Do people have to believe in your cure for it to work, do they have to have faith in the cure? This was a question I always asked those I interviewed and the answer was overwhelmingly yes. I clarified “faith” as meaning faith in the cure, rather than religious faith; for some people these two faiths are entwined. Those who seek a cure generally have faith in it and believe it will work, and this conviction is seen as contributing to the success of the cure.

I think that an awareness of past successes of a cure most likely offers a degree of hope to the person receiving it. This awareness is created by those who recommend the cure. Therefore, an expectation that the cure will work can exist prior to its administration, a positive expectation which is conducive to healing. Also, when someone needs a cure, a process must be gone through to get it. I believe that the process involved in getting a cure can contribute to a positive outcome; making a conscious decision to try a cure, locating, pursuing, and committing to it, is proactive and empowering, and could help stimulate the person’s innate healing ability.

Most of the traditional cures that are to be found in contemporary Ireland can be regarded as faith cures. They partially or totally consist of prayers and their success is generally attributed to God. Many Irish people still hold strong religious beliefs; Catholicism was an integral part of their upbringing and it has been a core institution of Irish society for decades. At times of difficulty and crisis in people’s lives, such as when they are sick, people turn or return to their religion for support. I believe that the saying of prayers, by those receiving and giving cures, can often provide reassurance and hope, and can enhance the healing process. Focus on the physical ailment may be lessened, and the psychological and spiritual aspects of the individual may be activated to contribute towards their cure.

*****

Reviewer Meg Nola Interviews Elissa Altman, Author of Permission: The New Memoirist and the Courage to Create

Aside from giving oneself permission to tell a particular story and pushing beyond familial, individual, or cultural boundaries, you note how writers and artists need to feel the permission of personal legitimacy. That what they are doing is valid, and that creative expression deserves their time and energy. While these are varying aspects of permission, are they also interdependent?

Absolutely, yes. One of the most human of needs—like sustenance, love, shelter—is being seen, and being heard. We are the art-making species, as Robert Macfarlane says. Not all work is meant for public consumption, certainly, and that fact has to be acknowledged: the number of students I’ve had who assumed their journals could be published is many. But we depend, almost biologically, on creative expression as life-blood. As Liz Gilbert once said, “No little kid, handed a coloring book and crayons, ever said Naw, not feeling it today.” One of the things I’ve witnessed repeatedly is the creativity that is fostered and cultivated among the young in some families, only to have it halted when the kid (writer/musician/visual artist) is told that it in fact isn’t legitimate, that it’s meant to only be a hobby, and they’re expected to either become a doctor or a lawyer as opposed to, say, a classical pianist. How do creatives handle this?

The creative impulse in whatever form it comes must be honored. If one is compelled to engage in creative expression, the worst thing that they can be told is No, you’re not allowed. It’s stultifying, paralyzing; it makes one invisible and isolated in an already isolating world. We are people of story, community, and creativity; I stand by that.

*****

Reviewer Rebecca Foster Interviews Daniel Tammet, Author of Nine Minds: Inner Lives on the Spectrum

The nine people you profile differ from each other in many ways. With the group biography format, did you hope to emphasize unity or diversity? Do you think of autism as having its own shared culture (perhaps in parallel to the Deaf community)?

I wanted to underline both the unity and diversity of autistic experience around the world, from the United States and Europe to Asia, and the ways in which culture, gender, different periods in history (the oldest people portrayed in the book grew up in the 1950s) all play an important role in shaping neurodivergent lives and minds. There’s certainly something to the notion of autism having its own shared culture, similar in some respects to the Deaf community, and this became clearer to me as I researched and wrote the different stories in the book, noticing how certain key aspects of autistic inner lives—such as the sense of profound loneliness stemming from a feeling of foreignness in one’s own nation and even mother tongue—repeated from one country and century to another.

*****

Reviewer Jeana Jorgensen Interviews Natalie Lawrence, Author of Enchanted Creatures: Our Monsters and Their Meanings

Fear is a constant thread running throughout the book, as humans grapple with our fears of darkness, the unknown, and so on through our storytelling. How do you think we can most constructively face our fears, especially when fears going unchecked can lead to truly destructive outcomes?

Monsters play this interesting role when it comes to fear. Their horrific bodies make fear tangible, a sensory experience for the eyes and ears which invoke the somatic sensations of fear itself. They also glamourise fear, allowing us to luxuriate in it safely, enjoying all the thrills with none of the danger. These simulations can be deeply cathartic—creating defined emotional peaks, as you might get in a horror movie, that are acute and bounded. They might push deeper fears into the realm of the ridiculous—caricaturing worries so they seem grotesque, ridiculous, dismissible. They might offer fantasies of our most serious worries being defeated by heroes.

But they can also escalate fears—such as phobias of other groups, of our past, conflicts—making them all the more monstrous. There’s a reason why things “grow horns” if you let them. So, ultimately, disentangling the monsters and facing the raw fears of which they are made in a sober, clear-eyed way is going to be the only way of handling them in the long term.

*****

Editor-in-Chief Michelle Schingler Interviews Antti Tuomainen, Author of The Burning Stones

Many readers come to Nordic thrillers expecting darkness, even dreariness; they come to yours and end up laughing, despite the still dark circumstances that surround your noir comedies. How did you carve out this particular niche, and have you noticed other writers following suit?

To be honest, I don’t know if I ultimately had a choice, really. By 2015 I had published five very dark, very noir novels when I just felt that I needed to do something different and something new. It was instinctive and came from within. In retrospect, I think I felt that I wasn’t quite using 100 percent of all my capabilities as a writer and was leaving something out or on the table, so to speak. So, after some soul searching, I realized that I have two artistic loves that are equally strong: noir and comedies. I have always loved all kinds of comedies from the old Marx Brothers to Bridesmaids and everything in between. And I thought that it would be interesting and fun to combine those two loves. And so I wrote my first dark humour novel called The Man Who Died. Ever since then, that’s what I have been doing and have been enjoying it. I’m sincerely hoping it has been enjoyable for readers as well.

Kathy Young
January 8, 2026

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