A Hard Thing in a Beautiful Way
An Interview with Allegra Hyde
Everyday, there are new reports that climate change is rapidly nearing a point of no return, even if the social and governmental policies that are recommended were to be implemented immediately. The work for reversal of rising sea levels, drought, wildfires, increasingly torrential storms, and unbearable everyday temperatures has been discussed and debated for decades, and with that work there has arisen a literature that not only seeks to document the current happenings, but to advocate for new ways of living our lives and in the process saving the world. There is no doubt that when we look back on this time—whether as historians, citizens, or readers—the conversation will include Allegra Hyde’s debut novel, Eleutheria, a lyrical, important, and thrilling book that examines and navigates the complex nature of utopia, desire, and the catastrophic cost of inaction.
Esteban Rodriguez: Thank you, Allegra, for your time. I really appreciate it. Before diving deeper into Eleutheria, I actually wanted to go back for a moment and look at your story “Bury Me,” from your short story collection Of This New World. In it we find Madeleine, the narrator, attending the funeral of her friend’s mother. Within the course of a night, Madeleine recalls her close friendship with Sally during college, how there was an intense, platonic intimacy they shared but how there was also a distance when Madeleine became more aware that Sally’s path toward “happiness” had always been given to her (there is, afterall, a building at their college named after Sally’s family).
What is your approach to creating characters of this nature? What draws you to narratives that explore the complexity between those who have and those longing for something more?
Allegra Hyde: What is true for me, I think, is that I don’t create characters, so much as let characters create stories. My fiction often emerges from a place of not-knowing, or of not-understanding – especially when it comes to character. I start writing because I want to understand a person better. By getting to know the character – often by listening to them talk, watching them experience different situations – I learn who they are and what makes them tick. And often, by virtue of that exploration, a story emerges.
This felt very true in “Bury Me,” which emerged from my investigation of why the protagonist makes the choices she does. The more I worked on the story, the more complicated she became, which in turn made the story more interesting. If “Bury Me” was in any way commenting on class dynamics, then those observations emerged organically from the process of understanding her as a person – along with the particular struggles and concerns she has.
This symbiosis between understanding a character and creating a story was also a significant part of writing Eleutheria; it took me a long time to understand my narrator, Willa Marks. But coming to understand her complexities went hand and hand with figuring out how to shape the story I was trying to tell. I don’t think I truly knew her until I was in the final stages of editing.
As for narratives of longing–I think this is maybe connected to my ongoing fascination with utopianism and idealism? I’d also argue that longing is a fundamental narrative engine for most literature!
ER: Willa Marks is one of the most relatable and fascinating characters I’ve witnessed on page in quite some time. Her hope to change the mindset on climate change is inspiring, but that same hope appears to be hindered by her relationship with Professor Sylvia Gill, at least initially. Sylvia’s stature (with Boston society, at Harvard, with her sociological work) offers a chance to sway public perception of those attempting to curtail impending climate disasters (such as the Freegans), but it nevertheless paralyzes Willa at crucial moments:
All over the world, protesters could barely lift signs before law enforcement swept through in the name of public safety and private property. Yet every time I found the courage to tell Sylvia my idea, the moment failed and my plan floated out of reach, around the corner of the next minute, hour, day.
Willa goes on to say that “a part of [her], deep down, knew that asking Sylvia for something would change what [they] had.” While hopeful, Willa’s aspirations take a back seat to that more human-to-human connection of which you speak. How much of Willa do you see in everyday people who struggle between the balance of implementing actual change (on a global scale) and seeking more immediate desires (love, connection, entertainment, etc.)?
AH: I think many of us are caught between the personal and the political all the time – especially those of us who are interested in seeing any kind of large-scale change that pushes against dominant values and social structures. This could be framed as idealism versus practicality as well. To live in modern America, for instance, means existing within the machinery of late capitalism. To function within society – to stay housed and fed, to have a career, to have relationships and connections – necessitates at least some degree of capitulation to the exploitative framework. Are there ways to minimize that capituation – to step outside of it, to push back – yes, absolutely. In my novel, the desire to find alternative ways of being is what leads Willa to connect with Freegan activists. But she can’t fully give herself over to them because she’s linked to Sylvia, and Sylvia’s world of respectability and institutionalized power. One of the reasons Willa ultimately goes to Camp Hope is that the distance and isolation of the compound – in a secret location all the way in The Bahamas – allows her sever that connection with Sylvia. She can (at least try) to focus wholly on her ideals and on creating change.
But, of course, it’s hard for Willa – as it would be hard for most people. One of the great challenges of activism, I think, isn’t just figuring out how to effectively and ethically promote one’s cause, it’s figuring out how to also be a person in the world, given the ongoing demands of our bodies and hearts.
ER: I couldn’t agree more with this assessment of balancing the demands of our bodies and hearts. As Willa says after a seemingly never ending storm batters Camp Hope, and as she reflects on the crew member party she stumbled upon, “At a certain point, human beings require more than ideals to keep going.”
To shift gears slightly, I was captivated by the language you used, especially as it relates to the world of increasingly militarized Boston and that of a more idyllic Eleutheria. I couldn’t shake this small description near the end of fourth chapter:
By early November, the Boston skyline filled with the hum of drones, as if they were mosquitoes hatching.
How did you approach style and language when it came to this novel? Did it differ from your short stories? Or other work?
AH: Language is at the heart of my writing practice. As much as I am interested in ideas, in plot and structure and character development, at the end of the day I need my sentences to sing. I want the language of my work to sweep a reader up and into a story, and to carry a current of emotion that is easier to feel than to explain. And while I would never want to write in a way that was “pretty” but insubstantial, I am, to quote the poet Nikky Finney, drawn to “trying to say the really hard thing in as beautiful a way” as I can, because that feels like a meaningful artistic goal.
One particular consideration for crafting the style and language of ELEUTHERIA, was that the bulk of the novel is written in the first person POV of my protagonist, Willa Marks. The book had to create the illusion of Willa speaking to the reader—saying what she wants to say—while also functioning as a novel. By this I mean, though Willa seems to be at the informational and storytelling helm, readers need to be able to see around and through her perspective at times. There needs to be a sense of pacing, of narrative momentum, and other literary machinery, all while conveying the sense that the reader is encountering the organic expression of a single mind.
This is where a sensitivity to language and style again became essential. Willa has a distinct way of seeing the world, and so I wanted her consciousness to infuse everything she told readers, even when she’s not talking about herself. Because she is so attuned to the natural world, for instance, her points of reference often draw on ecological language. Thus, when talking about drones, she compares them to mosquitoes. In this way, a sentence such as the one you’ve noted in your question does work of conveying Willa’s consciousness, communicating an essential plot detail, and also offers a reader a description that says the “hard thing” in a “beautiful way.”
ER: Readers can no doubt learn a lot about Willa, and her hope can be viewed through a lens of both inspiration and caution. Would it be fair to apply the same lens to a character like Roy Adams? And what can the Roy Adams of the world teach us about where we are in the conversation and progression of climate change action?
AH: I included the character of Roy Adams in the novel because the real world often seems full of Roy Adams-types. These are people—usually men—who exist in many different industries and arenas, but who are similar in the way they talk a big game and make even bigger promises. They are people who seem larger than life. People who seem to have something figured out—perhaps a shortcut or secret—that gives them a dazzling confidence. There’s so much uncertainty in life, and so many reasons to feel hopeless in the face of individual and societal challenges, that this kind of confidence can be seductive. It’s especially seductive to idealists, I think.
But Roy Adams (and a person who is a Roy Adams-type) is ultimately human. He is just as flawed and fallible as the rest of us. He is as much a product of his familial upbringing, his culture, his generation as anyone. And to put our whole and unquestioning faith in such a person is to lose sight of the larger social and historical contexts of which we are all a part. In Eleutheria, Roy Adams has a plan to save the world—which could be deemed noble, of course—but that plan turns out to necessitate the perpetuation of historical patterns of oppression. So, to answer your question: yes, Roy Adams can be read through a lens of both inspiration and caution. After all, he does have some good ideas—and even good intentions—it’s just that those ideas and intentions are inextricably bound up in legacies of colonialism, white supremacy, and exploitation in the Americas.
Beyond the binary of inspiration and caution, though, what I hope becomes evident via a character like Roy Adams, is that climate activism must go hand in hand with restorative justice to be both ethical and, I believe, successful.
ER: For readers diving into your work and work that centers on the effects of climate change, what other books would you recommend? Additionally, what groups or organizations are currently doing the groundwork for a future Willa would want to champion?
AH: Some influential texts, for me, included George Marshall’s Don’t Even Think About It: Why Our Brains Are Wired to Ignore Climate Change, Amitav Ghosh’s The Great Derangement: Climate Change and the Unthinkable, Micah White’s The End of Protest: A New Playbook for Revolution, and Andreas Malm’s How to Blow Up a Pipeline: Learning to Fight in a World on Fire. I’m also looking forward to reading Leah Thomas’s The Intersectional Environmentalist: How Dismantle Systems of Oppression to Protect People and the Planet.
There are many groups and organizations doing incredible work at both local and international level. The Sunrise Movement is inspiring as a youth-led organization, as are groups like Fridays for the Future and Youth vs Apocalypse. I’ve also been excited about the impact of BirthStike and Extinction Rebellion. There are climate news outlets like Grist, and podcasts like Sustainababble, and arts and literary venues like this one, that make sure that information about climate change is disseminated and unpacked in a variety of ways. I think Willa would champion participation in the climate movement in any way we are each able. Maybe that’s on-the-ground activism, maybe that’s being involved with local politics, maybe that’s journalism, maybe that’s making art, maybe that’s teaching, maybe that’s rewilding your yard. Willa (and I) both believe that everyone has a sphere of influence—however large or small—and that we can all contribute in some way to create a better future.
ER: Where does the journey take you from here?
AH: I’m excited to report that I have a new collection of stories coming out in 2023. Titled The Last Catastrophe, the collection expands and extends some of the questions asked in Eleutheria—questions like: What does it mean to live in a time of crisis? How did we get here? What does climate change entail on both an ecological, social, and existential level? The stories grapple with the prospect of “global weirding”—or the idea that climate change involves far more than changes in temperature—by often getting literally weird. If you’d like to read a story preview, I’d recommend my short piece, “Endangered.” I can’t wait to share more.