Book Addiction: Girl Last Seen

Nina Laurin’s enthralling debut, Girl Last Seen, comes out today and I had the excellent luck of being able to read an advance copy. Most of the time, my Book Addiction posts have a focus on amazing historical fiction, but I’m diversifying this time because I’ve been reading a lot of suspense lately and Girl Last Seen is utterly compelling and highly recommended.

Laine, the novel’s vulnerable but determined protagonist, struggles to cope with her past abduction, a crime that has never been solved. Now, thirteen years later, a second girl goes missing, one who could be the image of Lainey at age ten. Dark and full of serpentine twists, Girl Last Seen is an addictive books that makes for such captivating reading that you might find  yourself still turning pages when you should be cooking dinner, or looking up from the book and realizing that it’s suddenly past midnight. (Full disclosure: both of those things happened to me).

Nina has kindly agreed to an interview on my blog, making this an extra special post. Welcome, Nina!

What was your inspiration for Girl Last Seen?

I was researching some true crime for another story and fell down the Wikipedia rabbit hole. I came across a particularly chilling story of a true crime that just stuck with me. I may have read too much about it, because I had actual nightmares for a couple of days. I can’t give you the link, because it would in itself be a spoiler. But some time later, the main character of GIRL LAST SEEN just appeared in my mind, and I simply had to tell her story.

Did you face any unexpected challenges or pleasant surprises while working on the novel?

It was the manuscript that made me realize psychological suspense was my genre! At the end of 2014, I was facing a crossroads that no writer wants to face. I had broken up with my previous agent that summer and was disheartened by constant rejection, which made me question whether I was writing the right books—and whether I was really meant to be a writer at all. I don’t know what exactly possessed me, but I took out the first version of what would become GIRL LAST SEEN and started to overhaul it. To my surprise, it took off! And then I was writing the scene at the abandoned house where Laine is being stalked in the dark, and after a very long writing slump, I felt the energy come back into my fingertips. I felt like a writer again. I felt like I could write something good.

What was your favourite scene to write?

The scene at the abandoned house that I mentioned above, but also, the finale. It was breathtaking to write! I’m usually terrible at writing action and fighting scenes, but by then, I was invested in Laine and what happened to her. So writing that final showdown, where she faces her demons for the first time in ten years, was also heartbreaking in a way. And I think it gave the action sequence the super-high emotional stakes that made it easy to write.

What’s your writing process like? Do you have a strict schedule or can you write anywhere, anytime?

It depends on the project. I wrote the first draft of GIRL LAST SEEN in a couple of months, but the second and third drafts took a little more time and a little more discipline. It wasn’t about getting the words out anymore—it was about making them make sense. Which is (I think most writers will agree with me) a lot more difficult. Sometimes the writing flows, and other times, I have to force myself to get behind my desk (or motivate myself with chocolate… or bacon).

If you could pair your book with any reading snack or drink, what would you suggest?

Milk oolong tea (that’s a tea that tastes faintly creamy, not tea with milk in it—I’m sure some people like that, and that’s their business…) and dark, dark, dark chocolate. Together.

Stay updated on Nina’s book news:

Author website | Goodreads | Twitter 

From the book jacket: 

Two missing girls. Thirteen years apart.
Olivia Shaw has been missing since last Tuesday. She was last seen outside the entrance of her elementary school in Hunts Point wearing a white spring jacket, blue jeans, and pink boots.

I force myself to look at the face in the photo, into her slightly smudged features, and I can’t bring myself to move. Olivia Shaw could be my mirror image, rewound to thirteen years ago.

If you have any knowledge of Olivia Shaw’s whereabouts or any relevant information, please contact…

I’ve spent a long time peering into the faces of girls on missing posters, wondering which one replaced me in that basement. But they were never quite the right age, the right look, the right circumstances. Until Olivia Shaw, missing for one week tomorrow.

Whoever stole me was never found. But since I was taken, there hasn’t been another girl.

And now there is.

Author Biography:

Nina Laurin is a bilingual (English/French) author of suspenseful stories for both adults and young adults. She got her BA in Creative Writing at Concordia University, in her hometown of Montreal, Canada.

 

Flash Fiction – Goodbye

For some reason, the word ‘goodbye’ popped into my head as soon as I saw this picture. And then a story about a mother and daughter grew from there.

Photo via Visualhunt.com

When I took that photo, Sierra was thinking about how to say goodbye. I understood that now. The oversized burgundy sunglasses shielded her eyes, but her lower lip drooped in the way that meant she cringed inwardly. Usually it meant I’d said something embarrassing – which seemed to happen often enough, in spite of my efforts to be a ‘cool Mom’.

Last week, when we’d taken advantage of the slanting golden light for a photo session, I thought she was merely pouting for the camera.

“We don’t need new photos already,” Sierra had complained, glancing up from her pink-cased iPhone. The silvery glitter on her nails gleamed as she scrolled. “My portfolio is fine. And Instagram is better anyway.”

“I know, but it can’t hurt to take a few more. You can put some on Instagram, too. It might be nice to post a few more before Nationals.”

She’d sighed, but that was nothing new, really. Teenagers sighed all the time. She flexed her foot en pointe and tossed her phone on the counter. Even that motion looked graceful. “Whatever. Let’s go now, then, because I have to do my barre exercises still and then I have math homework.”

“We’ll have plenty of time.” I tried to sound encouraging. “We can stop for Chinese takeout one the way home.” Even as I said it, I realized that wasn’t going to be possible, not with Nationals coming up.

Sierra rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right. I can’t eat that right now.”

“I’ll make grilled vegetables and some fish,” I said, talking too fast, trying to cover my mistake.

Without her, the emptiness of the townhouse crushed in around me, and the tick of the clock echoed, knocking on my spine until I could hardly bear it. I imagined Sierra at her dad’s house, curled on the couch in the basement. I’d seen it once, when I picked her up. It was grey and soft. Maybe she’d be perched on the edge, eating pizza and laughing with her friends. She’d told me that he was letting her have a sleepover to celebrate her moving in with him.

“Are you coming back?” I remember how much I’d hated the tremor in my voice when I asked.

She lifted her hand to chew her thumbnail, a habitual nervous habit, and then dropped it again. Her lashes covered her eyes. “I don’t know. Not for a while.”

Panic bubbled in my chest, threatening to shatter. “What about Nationals? Are we still going?”

Her face scrunched up and she looked at the ground, kicking her toes against the corner of the tile. “I don’t know. No.”

The pain in my leg stabbed, sharper than the steady ache I’d been left with after a car accident smashed my bones and my own ballet dreams. I hobbled to the living room, and stared blankly at the muted TV.

Flash Fiction – Whispers

Now that it’s finally spring, I wrote a winter story for some reason. Still, it’s a pretty picture and I loved the idea of hearing eerie whispers in this setting.

 

His legs ached as he plodded forward, snow churning around his shins. Every gasping lungful of air squeezed his chest, and the exhales frosted his glasses. He focused on the nearest crooked pine, determined to pass it, and the next, each a landmark of laborious progress. The effort frustrated him, though it’d been his idea to go outside. His weakness felt unavoidable, almost appropriate, because it matched the stagnant crush of his repetitive days.

He was breaking that pattern, though, so it made sense that it hurt. Breaking something meant jagged pieces, cracked foundations. Painful rearranging. The thought unfurled a burst of energy and he charged forward in a cloud of snow. This was a good workout, if nothing else. After everything his sister said about nature and healing – well, it made sense to her; she did meditative yoga, too. The idea sounded dumb to him. And yet, here he was, voluntarily freezing and sweating at the same time, stumbling around in the dark.

Reaching the top of a swelling hill, he lurched to a halt. The heavy stillness of the clearing helped ease his breath. A hissing sound skated through the air, and he whirled, heart leaping. Only the friendly silhouettes of the trees circled, nothing else. A flicker of movement lifted his gaze, and he saw the sky, painted red and green. Mesmerized, he watched the colours sway across the stars and realized with an awed pang that the noise poured from the sky. The auroras crackled and whistled. Goosebumps prickled his skin.

It was just the sky, and it wasn’t. It was vast and cold but vital. The moment burned, imprinted on his bones, echoing through the trek home and through every step tomorrow. Just like hiking past the trees, the small milestones could make him free.


Here’s a link to a video if you want to hear the eerie sound of the northern lights.

 

Book Addiction: Becoming Bonnie

My latest book addiction is Becoming Bonnie by Jenni L. Walsh. I devoured this riveting novel in less than two days because I couldn’t bear to put it down. Evocative and honest, Jenni L. Walsh’s prose will immerse readers in the darkness and glamour of the 1920s, through the desperation of the Great Depression and the sultry jazz rhythms of Doc’s, the speakeasy where Bonnie Parker works. Going by Bonnelyn, she’s a wholesome, intelligent girl with big dreams. But as the Great Depression and strictures of prohibition show their teeth, she’s able to adapt to the pepper of gunfire. Bonnelyn is a likable, relatable narrator, and I felt like I knew her. And when she meets Clyde Barrow, his self-assurance and loyalty won me over, too. Thank goodness there’s an upcoming sequel, because I need more of these characters. Plus, it’s been optioned for a TV show!

One of my favourite aspects of the book is Bonnie and Clyde’s shared musical interest. They even write a song together, an adventurous, true-to-character ballad that I wish I could hear for real. I also enjoyed the relationship between Bonnelyn and Blanche, her sharp-tongued but pure-hearted best friend.

This is an extra special blog post, because Jenni kindly agreed to an interview. Welcome, Jenni!

Did you face any unexpected challenges or pleasant surprises while working on the novel?

Interestingly enough, Becoming Bonnie isn’t the story I first sought to tell. Driven by my desire to write the story of that iconic figure, I first began writing my own version of Bonnie and Clyde’s 1930s crime spree. I quickly put on the brakes, realizing my first challenge: I needed readers to understand who Bonnie really was at her core. What made her tick? What was her background? What were her aspirations, at the beginning and the end? Why was she so loyal to Clyde Barrow? So I put what I’d written aside, hoping to one day use it in a sequel, and started over, going back five years to tell Bonnie Parker’s origin story, which also allowed me to drop Bonnie into a 1920s speakeasy in the middle of a foxtrot. Now that was a good time (and a pleasant surprise!).

What was your favourite scene to write?

As Meghan mentioned, Bonnie and Clyde pen a song together in Becoming Bonnie. It was such a fun element of the story to write, so I’d like to share a snippet of the scene where Clyde reveals their first verse.


Clyde settles himself on the couch, then the instrument on his knee. He pats the spot beside him, pauses with his fingers ready to strum. I sit and fold my hands in my lap, watching as he clears his throat, swallows, clears his throat again. Clyde’s head tilts down, and he looks up at me from under his lashes.

“I started this here song a while ago, but she ain’t done,” he says. “Was hoping you’d help me finish her.”

“Me?”

His fingertips slide down the strings once, letting the soft sound vibrate ’round us. “You’ll see.”

He goes back for more, a dark melody forming with each stroke, and moistens his lips. Clyde says, more than sings, “Death is a five-letter word, with a five-finger clutch.”

His head stays down, his jaw relaxed, eyes closed. “It cornered him, pitting him against the bigger man . . . By the throat, edging closer, nearing Death’s final touch.”

The rhythm quickens, the beat an unexpected surprise.

Then there she was, light in the dark, defying Death’s plan . . . She stared it down, held on tight, fired off a shot all her own . . . Ohh”—he draws out the word, as if taunting Death—“Oh, oh, oh, death for the boy has been postponed.”

Clyde’s fingers shift to a higher pitch on the guitar. He smirks and sings from the corner of his mouth, “’Cause lean closer, listen close . . . How the story ends, no one knows . . . But one thing’s clear, you’ll see . . . Bonnie and Clyde, meant to be, alive and free.”

That last line, that last note hangs between us.

I forget how to breathe.

“That’s all I got for now,” Clyde says softly. “Thought maybe we could do the next verse together.”

“Together?” I wring my hands, staring into the eyes of Clyde Barrow, the criminal, the charmer, the . . . boy who wrote me a doggone song to show me how he cares.

“Yeah, Bonnie. You and me. What do you say?”

© 2017 Jenni L. Walsh


This plot element became doubly fun when a friend put the last line of the chorus into sheet music for me!

What’s your writing process like? Do you have a strict schedule or can you write anywhere, anytime?

My process is slow. Real slow. I’m one of those authors who has to get a line/paragraph just right before I move on. Then, I’ll often go back to add in new details that’ll support the new scene I’m working on. It takes me forever to complete a first draft. The upside is that my first draft is usually pretty clean and ready for a second set of eyes. As far as when I write, I got to wait for the a’ok from my bosses (my 1-year-old and three-year-old). My oldest gives me the stink eye when she sees my laptop out, so I generally only write during naptimes and at night, unless my husband is distracting them on the weekends.

How can we stay updated on your book news?

I have a newsletter (and a firm no-spam rule)! I also have three books, one of which is the sequel to Becoming Bonnie, coming in 2018 that I’d love to tell you about, if ya want to sign up here. You can also catch me on Twitter and Facebook, along with my website.

From the book jacket:

From debut historical novelist Jenni L. Walsh, Becoming Bonnie is the untold story of how wholesome Bonnelyn Parker became half of the infamous Bonnie and Clyde duo!

The summer of 1927 might be the height of the Roaring Twenties, but Bonnelyn Parker is more likely to belt out a church hymn than sling drinks at an illicit juice joint. She’s a sharp girl with plans to overcome her family’s poverty, provide for herself, and maybe someday marry her boyfriend, Roy Thornton. But when Roy springs a proposal on her and financial woes jeopardize her ambitions, Bonnelyn finds salvation in an unlikely place: Dallas’s newest speakeasy, Doc’s.

Living the life of a moll at night, Bonnie remains a wholesome girl by day, engaged to Roy, attending school and working toward a steady future. When Roy discovers her secret life, and embraces it—perhaps too much, especially when it comes to booze and gambling—Bonnie tries to make the pieces fit. Maybe she can have it all: the American Dream, the husband, and the intoxicating allure of jazz music. What she doesn’t know is that her life—like her country—is headed for a crash.

She’s about to meet Clyde Barrow.

Few details are known about Bonnie’s life prior to meeting her infamous partner. In Becoming Bonnie, Jenni L. Walsh shows a young woman promised the American dream and given the Great Depression, and offers a compelling account of why she fell so hard for a convicted felon—and turned to crime herself.

 

Author Biography

​Jenni L. Walsh spent her early years chasing around cats, dogs, and chickens in Philadelphia’s countryside, before dividing time between a soccer field and a classroom at Villanova University. She put her marketing degree to good use as an advertising copywriter, zip-code hopping with her husband to DC, NYC, NJ, and not surprisingly, back to Philly. There, Jenni’s passion for words continued, adding author to her resume. She now balances her laptop with a kid on each hip, and a four-legged child at her feet.

For the mamas, Becoming Bonnie is her debut novel that tells the untold story of how church-going Bonnelyn Parker becomes half of the infamous Bonnie and Clyde duo during the 1920s. The sequel Being Bonnie will be released in the summer of 2018.

For the kiddos, the Brave Like Me series is her middle grade debut that features true stories from heroic women who, at a young age, accomplished daring feats of perseverance and bravery.

 

 


Okay, now everyone go check out this book so we can talk about it!

How cool are these mugs?!

Book Addiction: Feast of Sorrow

I was lucky enough to read Crystal King’s Feast of Sorrow in advance of publication – which is tomorrow! Set during ancient Rome, Feast of Sorrow is a sweeping, decadent tale that tells the story of Thrasius, a talented cooking slave, as he enters the kitchen of Marcus Gavinus Apicius, a wealthy and ambitious gourmet with designs on becoming the culinary advisor to the Emperor. The intertwined elements of dangerous political intrigue and luscious feasts lured me in right from the first page, and I kept turning pages late into the night, riveted.

In between biting my nails over Apicius’ unpredictability and sympathizing with Thrasius’ sense of honour, I also found myself craving some of the delicious meals prepared in the story. Since Crystal King has compiled a few of the recipes on her website, readers can even try a few of the dishes. She also agreed to an interview on my blog, making this an extra special post. Welcome, Crystal!

What was your inspiration for Feast of Sorrow?

I was reading a book about banquets throughout the ages, FEAST by Roy Strong, and came across an anecdote about the ancient Roman gourmand, Apicius, and the extraordinary way in which he died. I thought it was so unusual that I had to be the one to tell the story of how he ended up the way he did.

Did you face any unexpected challenges or pleasant surprises while working on the novel?

It took me awhile to find my voice for the book. I rewrote the first 15 chapters three different times in different points of view. It was necessary, but frustrating. I also ended up killing off a whole bunch of characters that I never expected to. I would look up from an afternoon’s worth of writing and think, wow, I didn’t expect THAT person was going to die.

Did you try cooking any of the fantastic meals featured in the book?

Not a whole banquet because that would be outrageous, but I’ve cooked many dozens of the individual dishes. My husband and I regularly make Parthian chicken for dinner.  There’s also an ancient cracker recipe that I make a lot for parties. The honey fritters are super easy and amazing too. In fact, I have a whole cookbook that I created as a bonus for book clubs reading the book that features all sorts of recipes of my own interpretation but also some from famous chefs. More information can be found on the Book Club section of my site.

What was your favourite scene to write? 

That’s difficult. I think that some of the most important and best scenes of the book are also the hardest for me to write. But I suppose that one of the darlings of the book is the curse scene, when several of the characters go to an ancient Roman cemetery to put a curse on someone. I struggled finding an agent because of the book’s length and it was a scene that my writing group and agents suggested I cut to help with the length. I hung on to it though, and while it used to be much longer, I managed to keep it. And while I can’t find the original reference now, the curse itself is an actual Roman curse that I found in some history book, which I modified just slightly to accommodate the person cursed and the family doing the cursing, plus the right Gods for the book.

What’s your writing process like? Do you have a strict schedule or can you write anywhere, anytime?

I wish I had a strict schedule. I go in spurts with my writing, depending on what is happening in my life or other deadlines that I have. I work full-time in marketing for a software company so writing at night is too taxing for my poor brain. I tend to work on weekends, usually devoting an entire Sunday to spitting out a chapter or two. I do like writing in cafes, on trains, libraries and other places from time to time to switch things up.

How can we stay updated on your book news? Readers can sign up for my mailing list and follow me on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and at my site, crystalking.com.

From the book jacket:

Set amongst the scandal, wealth, and upstairs-downstairs politics of a Roman family, Crystal King’s seminal debut features the man who inspired the world’s oldest cookbook and the ambition that led to his destruction.

On a blistering day in the twenty-sixth year of Augustus Caesar’s reign, a young chef, Thrasius, is acquired for the exorbitant price of twenty thousand denarii. His purchaser is the infamous gourmet Marcus Gavius Apicius, wealthy beyond measure, obsessed with a taste for fine meals from exotic places, and a singular ambition: to serve as culinary advisor to Caesar, an honor that will cement his legacy as Rome’s leading epicure.

Apicius rightfully believes that Thrasius is the key to his culinary success, and with Thrasius’s help he soon becomes known for his lavish parties and fantastic meals. Thrasius finds a family in Apicius’s household, his daughter Apicata, his wife Aelia, and her handmaiden, Passia whom Thrasius quickly falls in love with. But as Apicius draws closer to his ultimate goal, his reckless disregard for any who might get in his way takes a dangerous turn that threatens his young family and places his entire household at the mercy of the most powerful forces in Rome.

 

Author Biography

Photo by Wayne E. Chinnock

Crystal King is an author, culinary enthusiast and marketing expert. Her writing is fueled by a love of history and a passion for the food, language and culture of Italy. She has taught classes in writing, creativity and social media at Harvard Extension School, Boston University, Mass College of Art, UMass Boston and GrubStreet, one of the leading creative writing centers in the US. A Pushcart-nominated poet and former co-editor of the online literary arts journal Plum Ruby Review, Crystal received her M.A. in Critical and Creative Thinking from UMass Boston, where she developed a series of exercises and writing prompts to help fiction writers in medias res. She considers Italy her next great love, after her husband, Joe, and their two cats, Nero and Merlin. 


 

Crystal is also happy to connect with book clubs, so if you’re a member of one, or looking to start a book club, I definitely recommend Feast of Sorrow. How fun would it be to read the book and then cook some of the meals? Contact information for book clubs is at this link.

 

Flash Fiction – Letters

I felt drawn to this beautiful, evocative photograph as soon as I saw it – the letters could contain so many secrets! The story that resulted ended up a little darker than I expected, though.

Photo via Visual hunt

The effort of moving the massive oak desk leaves me winded, with a dew of sweat on my forehead. Even with its drawers emptied, it wasn’t easy to drag its bulk sideways. It’s easy to imagine that the ancient desk was here before the house, that the walls of this study were propped up around it. It’s at least as old as the house; the soaring bird silhouette of the vineyard’s logo, designed by my great-grandfather, is scratched onto one corner.

I turn my attention to the loose floor board, the reason I’d needed to move the desk aside. It creaks as I prod it with my finger, but seems simple enough to hammer back into place. Small maintenance for century-old house.  The board resists the claw of the hammer, until I use both hands to lift and straighten it. An entire foot-square section of floor lifts up instead, hinging like a jaw over a gaping mouth. In shock, I nearly drop the hammer.

The small wooden box fills up the hollow space under the hidden trap door. I carry it carefully to the desk, and my fingers fumble over the latch. The papery smell of old books ghosts through the air, carrying a whiff of dust and a tinge of almonds. It isn’t books inside, though. Not exactly. Gently, I spread the contents out on the desk. An old diary, photographs of the vineyard in its first years, back when the California wineries were all new, and a packet of letters bound with crumbling black thread.

Fascinated, I pour a glass of wine and sit down at that sprawling desk, first examining the photographs. The binding of the diary threatens to dissolve under the lightest touch, and I must turn the pages very slowly. The string fastening the letters snaps under the barest pressure of my fingertips, and the letters themselves turn out to be the most illuminating of all, once I manage to decipher the twirls of faded brown ink.

My neck aches, and the clock chimes an echo of hours passed. One sip of ruby wine remains in my glass, which seems fitting. I swirl the glass idly, watching the crimson droplets scatter in the golden lamplight. One last taste – if I share the contents of the hidden packet, it would be the last vintage I bottled, the last produced by the vineyard under my name. The details of these papers would transfer everything to the overlooked but true heirs of the vineyard’s legacy.

I drink that mouthful. Against my dry tongue, it tastes bitter as old family secrets.

Replacing the floorboard cubbyhole is easy. I hammer it all the way down, so it can’t be lifted again, its hollow space, now empty, hidden forever. My head throbs when I lug the desk back into place. As I shove the packet of sepia-toned papers into the fireplace, the old book smell sweetens to vanilla, mingling with smoke and the sour emergence of a chemical odour, probably from the photographs. That bittersweet perfume lingers in my nostrils even when the ashes break to dust under the fire poker.

Imaginary Interview: Ophelia

Recently, I was watching Upstart Crow, a funny, reference-filled show about Shakespeare before he becomes famous and it inspired me to write another ‘Imaginary Interview‘ post, this time featuring Ophelia. She seems like an especially fitting character to write about since my dislike of Hamlet is well documented here on my blog.

So, let’s imagine that we’re sitting in expensive, squashy chairs and sipping artisan chamomile tea or something, listening to Ophelia open up about her brief teenage crush on Hamlet and how it changed her life forever.

Ophelia sits primly in the chair. It’s really lovely to be here, chatting. I’ve never been interviewed before. No has ever been interested in my opinions before. She smiles, but lets her long hair swing forward to hide half her face.

It’s about time then. Would you like to talk about Hamlet?

I suppose. I mean, he definitely had, like, a profound effect on my life. Falling silent, she gnaws her lower lip and stares off in the distance.

Did you love Hamlet?

Ophelia blinks, gaze focuses again. Love him? I don’t think so…I thought at one time that I did. At least, I wanted to. I guess I tried to, like, convince myself that I did. Look, growing up, I’d always had this idea that Hamlet and I would be married. He talked about it sometimes, and my father my brother Laertes also thought we were a couple. I think my father approved at first, because of course Hamlet was a Prince, and it would be a good match for me. Her voice drops a bit. A better match than I expected. I mean, I could have been Queen someday if I married Hamlet, and that seemed, like, too good to be true.

But Laertes didn’t want you to marry Hamlet, right?

Right. He told me that Hamlet’s love was fleeting, that he would never be able to commit to me. It really hurt, actually. Maybe I was just being insecure or something, but it made me feel like he wasn’t saying that Hamlet couldn’t love anybody. It felt like he was saying Hamlet couldn’t love me. Like no one could, like I wasn’t good enough. Ophelia curls up in the chair, tucking her feet under her. So, I broke things off with Hamlet. I had to. My father and my brother told me too, and I couldn’t go against them. I was always very obedient to them – after all, my father was the head of the household. But then Hamlet came to see me, and he seemed just, like, completely stricken. He was all pale and disheveled and kept saying weird things.

And your father believed your rejection of Hamlet had driven him insane?

Yeah. And I won’t lie, that was a bit of a confidence boost after what Laertes said. He made me feel like Hamlet would hardly even notice if I stopped talking to him, and now he was clearly having issues. When my dad sent me to talk to Hamlet, I thought maybe I could cheer him up, that we could work things out. I thought maybe I’d still end up marrying him. She sighs, and irritation sparks in her eyes. But then Hamlet was sooo rude. Like, he was such a poisonous hunch-backed toad. Ophelia flushes scarlet. I’m so sorry. I know I shouldn’t use language like that – it just slipped out. I guess I have a lot of anger about this still. But Hamlet said some really cruel things. He basically called me a (her voice drops to a whisper) whore. And, for propriety’s sake, I felt like I had to pretend I didn’t quite understand all his double meanings, but come on. I’ve been to plays and heard poetry. That Shakespeare guy is super inappropriate sometimes. And, another time, Laertes made this whole speech about virtue and kept going on and on about flowers – it was actually kind of disgusting. I knew what he was talking about and I didn’t need this lecture from my brother, of all people. I never did anything wrong, really, and I always just wanted to please everyone…She trails off, and seems agitated.

Anyway, Hamlet kept saying awful, crude things to me, even during a play. He seemed like a totally different person, although I guess to be honest, I didn’t know him all that well before. I mean, how well can you really know someone? But now he was someone I didn’t like. Ophelia straightens in the chair, twisting her fingers together so hard that her knuckles look white. And then he murdered my father! I know dad shouldn’t have been hiding behind the curtain, but it was a small deception. Not worth killing over. Hamlet ran him through with a sword without even checking behind the curtain to see who it was! Can you imagine? Her voice rises. I can’t even. What a horrible, stupid man.

Was he very remorseful, do you think?

I don’t think so. Well, I don’t know. It was very upsetting to me. I confess that I wasn’t paying much attention to Hamlet or anyone after that. I felt quite mad with grief. Like, I was so crazy that I wandered around singing these crude songs and handing out flowers. Her voice cracks. Father would have hated those songs – that’s why I sang them. I kept thinking that maybe, if I said enough bad things, he’d just show up and scold me, like old times. Crazy, right?

And then you went to the river…

Ophelia nods. Yeah. I didn’t have a specific purpose in mind when I walked there, but as I stared down into the water from a tree branch – I climbed it because I knew Father and Laertes would disapprove – I kind of realized that I would never be free. Hamlet and Laertes would just keep dictating my life and I couldn’t stand either of them at the moment. I thought about jumping into the river. I’m not sure I would have gone through with it, but then the branch broke – I know, convenient, right? And then the river was pretty fast, and my dress got quite heavy, and suddenly I didn’t have a choice anymore. She looks very sad.

What’s your greatest regret?

I hope this doesn’t sound too harsh, but honestly, sometimes I feel upset that I drowned before Hamlet died. He died from my brother’s poisoned-tipped sword. My brother died too, but first he and Hamlet forgave each other. I can’t help but wonder, sometimes, if my life would have been better if I lived and Hamlet didn’t. She scowls. Did you know that, after I died, he went on and on about how much he loved me? I was dead, and he still made it about him! You know, I think my biggest regret is that I had no agency at all. I know this was a play – I’m not totally oblivious – but why couldn’t I have been given more exciting lines? Like Juliet – she died too, but at least she tried to take charge of her future. She made plans, even if they went wrong. I didn’t get to do anything. Shakespeare could have done better, you know?