We chat with author Elle Marr about The Alone Time, which is a riveting novel about a family tragedy—and family secrets
What inspired you to write THE ALONE TIME?
Honestly, I have been wanting to write this story for a while now, but was waiting until the moment felt right — until I had the brain space to really process my own experiences. THE ALONE TIME is inspired by a plane crash I was in when I was a child. Obviously, it was traumatic in lasting ways, but I’m also very fortunate in that no one was injured. The same cannot be said for Fiona and Violet, my main characters in THE ALONE TIME, and I wanted to explore how survivors of a crash (much worse than mine) would handle that legacy into adulthood. Especially if neither of them is exactly sure of what transpired in the woods.
How is this on brand for you, after 4 published books? How is it different?
This book continues to explore dynamic and dysfunctional family relationships, as all my books do, but it focuses on the lengths we will go to survive — not only the initial trauma, but the years that follow. THE ALONE TIME is unique in that it examines whether and how the truth (or the omission of the truth) shapes our identity.
THE ALONE TIME centers around trauma and the way your characters grapple with it, as do several of your books. Why is that a recurring theme?
Trauma is such an all-encompassing experience, one that affects us psychologically, but also physiologically, down to the cellular level. I am always fascinated by the extent that all kinds of trauma linger in someone’s life, and I’m always impressed by survivors who manage to cobble together their happiness in spite of it. Big hurts and small wounds can reverberate throughout our lives if we’re not careful to address them, and I love exploring that in my writing.
Why is representation of AAPI stories so important to you?
I grew up without a lot of Asian-centered stories on my bookshelves. I didn’t see them available in my local bookshop, or on my TV, and as a result it seemed like my culture wasn’t as valuable or important. That has changed considerably over the years, and I’m so honored to add to today’s more diverse, modern offering now.
Did you know how the story would end when you began writing THE ALONE TIME?
Not really. Definitely, I had an idea of how the story would resolve, but the antagonists actually switched around as I dove deeper into the pages. I was as surprised as many readers will be, while I was writing, at the identity of the true antagonist of THE ALONE TIME. All of the details fell into place when I had that realization, and I knew I needed to modify my plan.
EXCERPT
CHAPTER 1, Fiona
Art is never more than a reflection of an artist’s twisted mind. The twigs that I harvested from the forested park that sits at the edge of my property seem to prove that idea, refusing to behave in my latest sculpture. Instead of a three-dimensional re-creation of a mountaintop, the one I can’t seem to shake from my dreams, the piece resembles more of a pincushion. Leaves, tiny branches, feathers, and an errant pine cone I stepped on during a walk last week each seem in opposition to my increasingly knobby fingers.
Something falls in my kitchen, scattering to the hardwood. “Marshall, stop going through the trash, buddy. Darleen is going to be here any minute.”
I stomp into the kitchen, all bark and no bite, then wag a finger at my Great Dane. “Jeez, look at this. You don’t even like tomato.”
Sweeping the remnants from yesterday’s BLT back into the plastic bag, I right the bin against the wall. With Marshall’s big brown eyes trained on me in fleeting remorse, I stack a cookbook on the lid. “No more of that.”
Normally, I hate wasting food. But when the BLT I ordered to go from San Diego’s hottest rooftop bar and restaurant contained a long human hair, I spat it out and then threw the whole thing away. Some people would do the same, but no one shares the same reasons as me. Except for Violet.
“Knock knock,” a voice calls through my screen door. “In the kitchen.”
Shuffling footsteps pass the dining table, and then my art dealer, Darleen Hallow, appears in the doorway. Marshall follows close behind, reaching her elbow. “Is that a new piece you’re working on back there? Love the pine cone.”
Fading red hair is artfully cut in a lob that lands on Darleen’s rounded shoulders. She could be a relative for the sharp hazel eyes we share, but that’s where any resemblance stops. Her creamy skin that seems impossible under San Diego’s consistent sunshine glows in the dim lighting of my home. A light bulb flickers above my sink—one of the endless household tasks I can’t seem to focus on when manifesting a new idea. Nothing else can grasp my attention while I’m in the thick of creativity—not for long at least. Laundry piles up, dishes multiply on counters, and take-out boxes dwarf my recycling bin. Considering I still need to create another half dozen pieces for the art gallery exhibition slated for next month, I might need help hurdling over pizza boxes to exit my house by then.
Since the Alone Time, I’ve had trouble multitasking. A therapist might say it’s a residual effect of my trauma—of being stranded in the wilderness with my family. In reality, it’s emerging from the wild without all of them that continues to haunt me.
“It’s getting there,” I reply. “My last visit to Balboa Park was productive. Found the blue-and-gold feather in a fountain. Drink?”
“No, I’m good. Thanks.”
Darleen, Marshall, and I head to the front of my house, to the sitting room, beside the front door I never use. It reminds me too much of my parents’ door—just down in El Cajon.
Darleen settles onto the couch that doubles as Marshall’s bed. “Okay, Fiona. Thanks again for this quick visit. I know you’re super busy.”
I smile, sliding into an armchair. “Yeah, it’s been a little stressful. Thanks again for coordinating everything with the gallery.”
“My friend, it’s an honor. I don’t know if you’re aware, but everyone in the art world is talking about you right now.”
I stiffen. “Really?”
“Well, no—sorry. Not—not like that. Everyone is excited to see your new creations.”
She sputters just like everyone else does when they recall the real reason people are intrigued by my artwork, and how it took years before they talked about anything other than me. I survived a plane crash that took the lives of my parents, that left me and my younger sister, Violet, to fend for ourselves for months. When a rogue hiker finally spotted us and came to our rescue twelve weeks after the crash, we had become so accustomed to the world as we knew it, we didn’t want to leave. Well, I did. I wanted shelter and a hot shower as a thirteen-year-old girl. Violet, as a seven-year-old, had accepted the woods were her home now. She was harder to coax onto a small airplane that resembled the one that killed our mom and dad.
“Darleen, I get it. But this is my first major show all by myself and . . . I’m kind of terrified.”
She softens, leaning toward me. “Sure, sweetie. That makes sense.”
“Like . . . what if no one comes? What if I don’t sell one piece?”
Darleen shakes her head. “Not possible. Not after the way you were featured at the Coachella Biennial last year. Most artists wait decades for the kind of appreciation you’re getting now.”
I purse my lips. “Appreciation or criticism?”
“Well . . . ,” Darleen draws out.
She doesn’t have to finish her sentence; we’ve been over this. Some people think I’m exploiting my parents’ deaths since my pieces are inspired by our time in the wild. But lots of others, many more, just want to support me. One of the girl-survivors.
“Regardless of the naysayers,” Darleen continues, “if this show goes well, it could catapult your work up to San Francisco and New York. Maybe even Europe.”
“That would be amazing,” I reply, wistful. “Violet would love all of that.”
“Right. I’m sure.” Darleen gives my hand a squeeze. It’s one of my favorite refrains at this point—me wishing my baby sister would find a way to move forward from the trauma, to lead a fulfilling life and stop wallowing in the past. Better to completely turn the page and channel the experience into something good. Like art. Like I’m doing. So far the only productive thing Violet has accomplished is dropping out of college. Twice.
“Do you think Violet would join you for the art show next month? You said it yourself: it’s kind of a big deal.”
I smile. Darleen has my best interests at heart, I know it. “I haven’t spoken to my sister in over a year. Now—when there’s so much riding on this gallery showing—isn’t great timing.”
“Well, I had to ask. You know, there have been a few inquiries. Requests for interviews and features. There’s a documentary that was announced a few weeks ag—”
“It’s a no for me,” I cut in. “Definitely.”
“Got it.” She holds up both hands, palms out. “Understood.”
The conversation turns toward the dozen pieces that I promised the Hughes Gallery. Darleen asks well-meaning questions, tilting her head to the side just like my mom used to do. When she rises to leave, she pulls me in for a tight hug.
As Darleen’s blue Civic backs out, Marshall sits at the screen door facing the curved driveway of my home. As if yearning for a friend who doesn’t care if he paws at cold sandwich bits. Birdsong twirls through the air at dusk. The noise of traffic and cars honking grows faint against the rural whisperings on the edge of town.
Once, Darleen asked me why I keep my door open during the day, only locking it at night. I nodded to Marshall and said, “My bodyguard scares anyone off. And I like a breeze.”
She said, “Aren’t you afraid he might overpower you, living just the two of you? He’s such a big guy.”
I touched my dog’s head. Patted the skull I know exactly how to crush, whose bony plates would collapse together like Styrofoam under the right weight and angle.
“No,” I replied. “I’m not afraid of my dog at all.”
Certain that she’s long gone, Marshall trots through my one-story house. He returns to the front room’s couch, then curls up on the blanket that’s wedged against the corner cushions for him.
I approach my dilapidated sculpture. Since I don’t have roommates and don’t entertain guests outside of my art dealer and the wayward boyfriend, my dining room is the most versatile workshop I could ask for. Tweezers, meat tongs, and latex gloves are scattered along the table’s border.
The pine cone tilts away from the summit like a sore thumb, whereas before it seemed the perfect addition to the sticks and twigs that formed a mountaintop twelve inches in height. The cardboard box I use as a base and which I specially order in bulk from a warehouse in Los Angeles seems too wide now, given the shift.
I heave a sigh. “Why did I think this was a good idea, again?”
Over the years, interviewers at galleries—the only interviews I’ll give—have asked me when I began creating art from organic materials. Whether the idea was born from the Alone Time, as my sister and I called the twelve weeks that we were stranded in the wild, or afterward during my wandering adolescence at my aunt’s house in La Jolla.
Every single time, I reply, “Oh, afterward.” I always wonder then if I’ve managed the right balance of spontaneity and genuine reflection to appear truthful.
My phone rings, jarring me from my process. Marshall whines from the front room, lifting his head and jingling his collar to further alert me. He doesn’t like it when I receive calls either.
As I reach my cell where I left it beside the trash bin, an unknown number buzzes across the screen. An automatic no for me.
I silence the call, returning to my dining table.
Then my phone buzzes again. The same unknown number calling.
When a voice mail hits my inbox, I play the recording, already anticipating the bomb.
A silken voice begins, “Hi, this message is for Fiona Seng. I’m Nathan Wallace from the Boston Times. In light of your upcoming gallery show, I was hoping to—”
I snatch my phone from my table, then jam my finger against the delete button.
A deep breath rattles in my throat. I pause to recenter myself, to refocus. Try to block out the nasty energy of rubberneckers seeking more page views at my emotional expense.
Cool air passes through the screen door, circling my mountain sculpture and tipping a gray-and-white feather from the middle. The short tuft of plumage slides out of position, resembling a cloud that drops in elevation. Falling out of line. Refusing orders.
A three-note melody twirls from somewhere outside. The soothing coo of a turtledove.
I set my shoulders, drawing strength from the ambient noise. Although my sister has shunned most forms of nature since our return to civilization, I never lost my appreciation for the outdoors. Our experience in the wild took so much from us, but I have clung to my love of sunsets, landscapes, and animals in their natural habitats. Against all odds.
I reach for the tweezers with a shaking head.
As my mother used to say to us girls, before she tramped past the damaged wing of the airplane into the darkness of a mountain ridge: if you get knocked down, make sure you get back up.
Fueled by the memory of her voice—the way it echoed against the cliff’s edge—I reposition the feather at the mountain’s peak. Higher than it was before.
