When my 2015 debut novel Eileen made it on to the shortlist for the Man Booker prize, I knew I was in trouble. Up until that point, I had skirted by the mainstream as a writer of experimental literary short fiction. Writing a full-length novel that resembled something I thought a “normal” person might read felt like an outlandish endeavour at the time, but one I undertook with the seriousness of a young writer desperate to make a living doing what she loves.
I have since published three other novels and a collection of short stories, and at 42 I have been mostly disabused of my innocence. But a decade earlier, writing a novel that followed the conventions of the traditional form was an act of underhanded rebellion. I felt that I was feeding the beast of a capitalist book industry while using my artistic sensibilities to sneak in some subversive ideas in order to feed myself and maintain my creative integrity. Maybe you would call this my Trojan horse. As hopeful as I was that I would get past the gates, I wasn’t prepared for what would happen once I was there.
