I am swooning over The Deepest Lake by Andromeda Romano-Lax. It's eerie, evocative, entangling, and pulls at a knotted thread of mystery. The hallmarks for gorgeous prose are woven together seamlessly within this narrative: emotional resonance, allowing residual feelings and thoughts to linger, while simultaneously generating forward momentum.

At the start of The Deepest Lake, Jules, a twenty-something aspiring writer, jets off to an exclusive writing workshop at the Guatemalan home of the charismatic—and often controversial—author Eve Marshall on the shores of Lake Atitlán. The Mayan culture suggests a strong healing vortex lies within the lake. Composed of submerged volcanoes, a hidden city, and a plethora of white quartz, it is said the lake calls people worldwide. The lake’s strong restorative properties promise transformation and rebirth. Jules is thrilled to be part of Eva Marshall’s writing workshop, what she calls a ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ opportunity. She’s sure to glean all Eva’s writerly ambition, her tricks and secrets, and maybe even heal her own demons. She may not get paid, but it’s worth it to be Eva’s assistant. Plus, the perks: a personal chef, sunshine, yoga, notebooks, colorful shawls, and even massages.

Then, a tragic accident. While swimming alone in the lake, Jules disappears. Just days ago, she had been happy and texting her mother, Rose, back in the Chicago suburbs, and now: nothing.

Jules is presumed dead—but there is no body. Speculation swirls: was it an accident? Murder? Suicide? Maybe she’s just quiet because she’s writing? Maybe the wifi is poor. After three months, and no answers, Rose decides to go undercover as an aspiring writer herself and travels to Guatemala to uncover the truth. As she digs through details about the days leading up to Jules’s disappearance, she begins to suspect this glamourous writer’s retreat is hiding unseemly truths, begging the question:

Is Lake Atitlán a place where traumatized women go to heal, or a place where deeper injury is inflicted?

Traversing continents and exploring themes of writing craft, grief, trauma, mothers and daughters, and artistic ambition, The Deepest Lake is a highly sophisticated exploration of the intersections—and cross-sections—of society: from truth, survival, and personal transformation, to elitism, secrets, jealousies, motivation, and more.

Andromeda Romano-Lax is the author of five novels translated into eleven languages, including The Spanish Bow, a New York Times Editors’ Choice, and Annie and the Wolves, selected by Booklist as a Top Ten Historical Novel of the Year. Her novels reflect her interest in psychological scandals, nature, and artificial intelligence.

The Deepest Lake is somber and stark but glittering with the most gorgeous and unfiltered prose. I relished in the opportunity to observe the risks taken in the name of creativity, to dive into the murky depths of places we travel to ensure our own survival.

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Leslie Lindsay: Andromeda, this book is stunning. Not only is the writing and characterization psychologically astute, but the themes are spot-on. I understand you wanted to write a story about how writing and publishing serve as metaphor, but was there more to your inspiration?

Andromeda Romano-Lax: Thank you, Leslie. I’m so honored. I’d say that the central thematic question of who controls our stories, and what happens when we lose control, were the initial inspirations. Even before I came up with the missing persons plot, that question has always mattered to me. It’s come up for over two decades now, including times I’ve participated in writing workshops, especially when I’ve witnessed students being pressured to give up authority of their stories. It’s even come up when I’ve been the teacher myself, worrying that I’m projecting too many of my own ideas, ambitions, or processes onto others.

But nothing struck me quite so much as a memoir workshop I attended a few years ago, before the pandemic. It was there that I witnessed more extreme examples of what I’d seen elsewhere. I wasn’t a prime target; in workshops, if you’ve already published a few books and attended other workshops and maybe even taught a few, you’re not as sensitive as newcomers. But you also have a basis for comparison. You know what’s fairly typical versus what’s unusual or way out of line.

Even so, I didn’t think I’d be writing a thriller about a workshop! Later that year, I was working on a far-flung suspense plot that took place over two continents and many months. When I explained it to my editor over lunch at a book festival, I told her I knew what I was doing wrong. A better concept would be bounded by space and time, and populated by characters with much more specific problems and desires. Almost as a hypothetical, I pitched the editor a new idea, on the spot, about a week-long memoir workshop that goes very wrong in Guatemala. “Go home,” she said immediately. “Write that one. … How long will it take?”

Leslie Lindsay: I relished your insider’s look at the glittering, intimate, and sometimes toxic world of writing retreats. Not all retreats are created equally, and I’ve been to several. I love how you wove in bits and pieces of workshopping, the craft of writing, and even competition among writers. For the most part, writers are a nurturing and supportive group, but there are always exceptions. Can you talk about what happens when we’re empowered to rewrite the narrative?

Andromeda Romano-Lax: We can certainly try to rewrite the narrative with our own peers, and we can try to develop the confidence to let unconstructive criticism roll off us. But I don’t know that we can rewrite it entirely. As writers, we are vulnerable, even more so when there’s any autobiographical element in our work—and of course, nearly everything has some part of us inside it, whether it’s memoir, fiction, or poetry. We also depend, tremendously, on feedback. And on gatekeepers.

We can advocate for our own work, but it’s still a battle, as I’m sure you’d agree. Developing resiliency, and learning how to keep just enough distance from people who would do us harm, even unknowingly and unintentionally, is essential. By the time someone writes and publishes a book, chances are she has experienced great kindness and its opposite, which is sometimes (not always!) cloaked in good intentions. As the proverb goes, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

Leslie Lindsay: Keeping with the spirit of writing and reading—and its longevity—I was intrigued by Jules’s obsession with Eve Marshall’s memoirs. Jules dog-eared pages, underlined passages. She re-read them. Given our setting, the context, our emotional state, re-reading strikes differently. Can you expand on that, a bit?

Andromeda Romano-Lax: Nabokov said the only reading is re-reading. I’ve found that to be true and I could spend the rest of my life re-reading favorite books. In this novel, Jules has been reading a favorite memoirist since she was a teenager. Then she meets her literary crush, so to speak. That’s a heady experience. I’ve been there myself. But back to the reading: yes, I think books strike us differently at every life stage and depending on context. I love to see old notes I’ve made in the margins. Do you mark up your books, Leslie? I’m hoping you do!

Leslie Lindsay: Absolutely! Books are learning devices, and to learn—through whatever medium—we must consume the material. I dog-ear, flag, deconstruct, take notes. Some of my books are filled with things scrawled in the margins and underlined. Right now, I am re-reading a handful of craft books rediscovered in my office. My goal is to get through one a month. Speaking of writing craft, can you share a bit about your process? The Deepest Lake is primarily set in a foreign country, Guatemala, with cameos in Chicago, and it is largely about writers and authors, which of course you are familiar with. There’s so much more to the story, and I am curious how you determined plot, for example. There are many ways the story could have gone!

Andromeda Romano-Lax: The plot unfolded as a result of the characters, their wants and flaws. The cultural and physical setting of rural Guatemala is a big part of the story as well. That all sounds basic enough, but I can tell you that I really didn’t see in advance where the plot would ultimately go. In fact, I wrote two extremely different versions of this book. My publisher remained open to either version, and so I had to choose. Did I want grim reality? Redemption? Could I allow myself to enjoy paying homage to thriller tropes, and would the reader “get it”? (We all know thrillers can get pretty over-the-top.) Could I also trust the reader to understand that this really is a book about writers and writing? It’s not the same story it might have been if it were set at a yoga or wellness retreat, for example. The book you’ve now read is only one of several possible versions of that book, and that’s true of every book we read. It’s sort of mind-boggling.

Leslie Lindsay: What elements of craft do you struggle with? Do you research as you write, do it all ‘up front,’ or do you practice a sort of hybrid process? What do you feel are your strong suits?

Andromeda Romano-Lax: Oh, I love research so much, especially travel research! I started out as a historical novelist and every novel I’ve written except for one has required archival work and/or visiting locations, plus usually interviewing people. I don’t do it all up front. I interweave research, writing, and revision. I’ll keep looking up facts to the very last minute and even beyond, when the book is in stores.

I think my strongest suit is choosing a big question, trusting what I’m doing, and following the story where it takes me. The part of craft I struggle with, which used to be easier, is slowing down and grappling with language one word at a time, because I’m often as curious as the reader about what’s going to happen next. Plot, in other words. I am not the kind of writer who aspires to plotless novels. When character, plot, setting, and perhaps some kind of cultural commentary come together—that’s when I’m hooked.

Leslie Lindsay: I love how some of the places you mention in The Deepest Lake are so real. For example, we see the bird design on the garden gate at Eva Marshall’s lakeside home. We hear the tuk-tuks putter along the dusty road. A writing instructor of mine calls these ‘verifiable’ facts. Evanston, Illinois is mentioned, and so is Women and Children First, a bookstore in Chicago. All verifiable, but still fiction. These details do two things: they add credibility to the story while giving it such authenticity the novel might be misconstrued as memoir. Can you speak to that, please?

Andromeda Romano-Lax: Thanks for noticing. I’d like to think all of my novels operate that way. If I describe a royal palace in The Spanish Bow or a Tokyo park in Plum Rains, it’s because I’ve been there, and I try to get the details right. In The Deepest Lake, I chose Chicago’s North Shore as the home place for Rose and her daughter Jules, because I grew up there: born in Chicago, raised in Waukegan, high school and college in Lake Forest. (I know you attended the Ragdale residency in Lake Forest, Leslie!) I had fun dropping in some Easter eggs that I hope other North Shore readers spot—such as when two characters debate the best local pizza or breakfast joint. Because my mother character, Rose, doesn’t necessarily want others to know who she is or where she lives, the mere discussion of deep dish pizza can be dangerous! 

Leslie Lindsay: I agree! Those little Easter eggs were fun for a Chicago-based reader/writer like me.

Shifting gears a bit, many of the women in the workshop had experienced some deeper trauma, consisting of cancer survivors, plus incest, rape, and addiction. All contribute to our personal narratives, but The Deepest Lake is really about survival and resilience. Yet, writing is not exactly cathartic. It’s hard work. Any tips or suggestions about writing tough stuff without retraumatizing oneself?

Andromeda Romano-Lax: Let me start with the word “cathartic,” which I probably use too loosely in everyday conversation but will use more carefully here. Technically, it means a process that releases emotions and relieves the negative impact of damaging experiences. Now, I know you’ve written memoir, and I think we can agree that just because emotion is released doesn’t mean the negative impact is gone. Grief, anger—all strong emotions—can come at us in waves. Memories persist. Triggers bring things we thought we were “over.” Extreme trauma can change us at the genetic level.

I am not an expert by any means, but it seems to be that the first step in avoiding the most thoughtless kinds of re-traumatization is allowing the writer to be in control of the writing process, not being led, pressured, badgered, silenced—or even over-rewarded, like in some game of “hot” and “cold,” where she might be reinforced for publicly emphasizing one incident or emotion over another. I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a workshop or classroom and listened as someone’s account of a memory bends in response to a leader’s vocal encouragement of a more dramatic or marketable story, but I have, and it can be chilling.

Even in the best situations, without any kind of bullying or suggestion, I think writers are retraumatized. Who hasn’t felt flayed after writing a difficult scene or reading it aloud to strangers? Or while discovering a new memory through the process of writing itself? If we are going to take that risk, we’d better hope we have support structures in place. The workshop leader you just met last night probably isn’t the person to help you deal with the days or months that follow. 

Leslie Lindsay: I want to end on hope. Ultimately, The Deepest Lake is about new beginnings. Would you agree, or did I miss the mark?

Andromeda Romano-Lax: Absolutely! While writing our stories—again, whether they are nonfiction or fiction—can lead us into dark or surprising places, I do think the ideal is that moment when we have managed to shape a narrative that we can live with, one that feels true to us and helps the world make at least a little more sense. It’s a delicate process. But in the end, psychologists tell us it’s healthy and necessary. We need our stories. And we need to be in charge of our stories—especially their cumulative meanings.