Shelly Kawaja

1. How did you conceive your first book?

In some hidden corner of my heart, I always considered myself a writer, but I grew up very poor, and in rural Newfoundland where there was no avenue to write professionally. The idea of writing professionally was hardly possible. I needed a practical job to pay bills, and that looked like a big enough hill to climb! I was in my late thirties before I reached a place where I could sit down and dedicate serious time and space to writing, but I knew I had a story to tell.

My debut novel is a work of fiction, but the original seed of inspiration comes from real life. My mother was in a domestic violent relationship when I was a child. She got out of that relationship, but the question that always haunted me was, what if she hadn’t? That’s the situation I created for my young protagonist, Laurel, and we get to see what she has to do to bring that violence to an end. The book isn’t about abuse, but about what happens after. How does a family, and close friends connected to that family, find love and healing in the aftermath of violent trauma?

2. What is your theory of writing?

Writing is a journey of self-discovery. There is no path. The destination is unknown. The climb is rocky, steep, and landslides are common, but once you find that initial foothold, reaching the top becomes an obsession. I’m actually in awe of the process and how much I learned about myself while writing my first book, The Raw Light of Morning.

3. What does it mean/suggest for you to think about your craft that you are able to grow with each published work? How do you do that?

The first bit of serious fiction I ever wrote was the first draft of this book. I sat down one day and pounded out a draft like I had some clue about writing fiction. I didn’t! But a year later, I had an unholy blob of a manuscript. A great start, but I needed help, badly. I applied to a mentorship program with the Writers Alliance of Newfoundland and Labrador (it’s free!) and was mentored by Charis Cotter who helped me rewrite my blobby draft. After that, I took a break from my book to focus on short stories. I completed the creative writing certificate at the Humber School for Writers where I was mentored by Elisabeth de Mariaffi. Some of my stories were total flops, but others were reworked over and over until I learned how to dissect my own writing, figure out what I wanted to say, put it back together, and actually say it. I landed my first publication, “Double Daylight,” in The Dalhousie Review, and another story, “Shot Gun,” won the 2020 GritLit award. These were my first “footholds.” And I was hooked. A total goner!

I returned to my book for my thesis in the MFA program at the University of British Columbia where I rewrote it from scratch. Again. I was lucky enough to be mentored by John Vigna, who understood exactly what I was trying to do. We dug into the emotional work of the story and the writing process as a whole. It was truly a life-changing experience and I’m proud of where this book ended up. All this to say that publication is a wonderful thing, and the validation counts for a lot, but my writing grew as I studied the craft and learned through the generosity of other writers willing to share their knowledge. It’s an amazing community to be a part of, now that I’ve wedged myself into it.

4. How did your novel change/evolve between drafts? Can you describe what was your focus on each draft during the novel’s evolution?

There were many drafts, but to keep it simple, I’ll say that I wrote the first draft for myself and the second draft for the reader. The final draft was where I really combed through every scene to make sure there was nothing left of myself in the story. And by that, I mean I made sure I wasn’t judging my characters but showing them as whole human beings regardless of how I felt about them. In fiction, everything needs to be given over to the reader so they can judge for themselves.

5. How is your writing practice informed by a sense of writing to or for others? Do you have an audience in mind when you write?

I used to think of an audience as a crowd of people I needed to impress by shouting sentences at them, or with some lofty literary genius I don’t actually possess, but I’ve come to see writing as something much more intimate than that. Now, writing feels like having a conversation with a small group of people whom I hold close. That shift in thinking was pivotal for my writing. I needed that feeling of intimacy to dig into some difficult topics and point the story in the right direction.

6. Who is your work in conversation with? (i.e., other authors/artists, specific people, audience, peers, etc.)

In terms of other authors, I have a growing obsession with writers like Lauren Groff, Claire Vaye Watkins, Pola Oloixarac, and Patricia Lockwood, just to name a few! I’m interested in where they are pushing the conversation about what it means to be a woman and an artist. I consider my own work as part of a feminist conversation, more specifically, I think I’m conversing with feminist mothers. No one sympathizes with mothers, not in the same way they do with other people, there’s always some form of judgement attached. We need to stop judging mothers and start supporting them. We need to stop judging our own mothers as harshly as we do and try to understand them, as hard as that may be sometimes. Every mother wants to do right for their kids, but they can’t do that by themselves. They can’t do that if they are broken.

7. What is new in the world that you need to capture in your writing?

The world is loud right now. We just survived a pandemic that forced us to see the lines drawn between different classes, races, and genders. These lines have always been there. They’ve been redrawn again and again over centuries of civilization. They’re being redrawn again now, and rightly so. A part of me is afraid of what this means, for me, for my children’s future, but it also galvanizes me to speak up. I want to add my voice to the clamour so that women and mothers gain ground instead of losing it.

8. What are you writing against or towards?

Trauma can be very isolating. I’ve read many stories that feature a protagonist who is empowered by that isolation. The tough girl who overcomes a traumatic experience with nothing but grit and a bad attitude. We’ve all seen the movies. I like a lot of those movies! But that solo journey is unrealistic. It’s a fantasy. And quite damaging to anyone who thinks that’s what healing is supposed to look like. If I’m writing toward anything it’s toward an alternative to the glorified lone survivor.   

9. How do you deal with aspects of writing that might provoke frustration, doubt, disappointment, etc.? How do you talk to yourself when things are hard?

The writing journey feels impossible sometimes. I have to dig into past trauma, pick my way through raw emotions, and convince myself it’s okay to show this to other people. When I think about what potential readers might think I start to doubt my choices. I need to take breaks and draw courage from the work of other people. There are some very bold, honest, and generous writers out there. In Canada, the work being done by indigenous writers like Katherena Vermette and Michelle Good is particularly illuminating and heartbreaking, but also encouraging. We have a lot of work to do in this country when it comes to teaching young generations about old traumas in a way that allows them to understand, and feel embraced, rather than feel burdened. This is something I’m learning how to do with my own children.

10. How did you arrive at the title “The Raw Light of Morning?”

The title of this book changed so many times! Every title felt like a placeholder instead of a forever-title. The Raw Light of Morning popped into my head one night. I fired it off to my editor, Claire Wilkshire, at Breakwater Books and it just stuck. The title connects with the book in a bit of an abstract way. “Light,” refers to the guiding force you can find in the people who care about you, those rare kindred souls who guide you through your darkest moments if you are able to let them.

One of my favourite book titles is Anthony Doerr’s All the Light we Cannot See, and I was inspired by that for sure, even if I didn’t realize it at the moment that I came up with the title.

11. What is your definition of a successful piece of writing? Who decides that?

I’ve read somewhere, I can’t remember where exactly (I’ve Googled with no luck), that a successful first book is one that is written, rewritten, then written again. I think I’ve finally said what I wanted to say in The Raw Light of Morning. I’ve captured an emotional truth that has taught me something about myself. It’s an incredible feeling, and I can’t think of a better measure of success than the clarity that comes with personal growth. I’m at a point in my writing journey, this journey of self-discovery, where I can see where I want to go next, then next after that. I’m not sure if anyone can ever reach the “top,” or “master” something like that, but it’s a satisfying climb. It’s also a tough climb, so I think it’s important to pace yourself. Drink plenty of water. Exercise. Have snacks on hand. Lots and lots of snacks. And keep connecting with other writers because we have a lot to teach each other, and without them, the work gets a little lonely.

Author Bio

Shelly Kawaja is a fiction writer based in western Newfoundland. She writes gritty realism with raw emotion and deals with topics such as domestic violence, trauma, and rural poverty. Her work has appeared in The Humber Literary Review, The Dalhousie Review, Post-Colonial Text, CBC online, PACE, and Word Magazine. She was also the winner of the GritLit 2020 short fiction contest. Shelly is a graduate of Memorial University of Newfoundland, The Humber School for Writers, and is a current MFA candidate in the creative writing program at the University of British Columbia. Her debut novel The Raw Light of Morning, will be available with Breakwater Books in Fall 2022.