What do you begin with when writing? A character? A theme? From there, what are the next steps?



I often find myself writing about whatever I can’t stop thinking about, whether it’s something that happened to me or something I saw or heard. I recently started a new project that really surprised me — I hadn’t been looking for it — but soon I was working on it when I probably should have been doing other things, and I decided to pay attention to that instinct.

Sometimes I also land on an idea in the course of conversation with somebody I trust. (If there’s a particular thing you just can’t stop bringing up, that probably means something, you know?) Usually I begin with a short scene; even if it doesn’t stay at the top of a piece, it makes me think, right from the start, about narrative and pacing and structure. When I write, before I ask you to do anything else, I want to make you feel like you’re there with me, and a scene is often the best way to do that.

Describe your editing process. With each iteration, are you focusing on a different aspect of your work?

For the book, it was so important to get reads from people I trust — first and foremost my amazing editor, Julie Buntin, but I had some friends read it, too. Because it was a memoir, I also had various relatives read it, and then incorporated their corrections and feedback as well.

I’m an editor, and I think that helps in the sense that I really trust the revision process — but also, sometimes, I hate it? It can be hard to remember that when I’m thinking about or drafting my own stuff I should definitely not be trying to edit myself at the same time. I realized about a third of the way through the first draft of my manuscript that if I continued to edit myself as I went along, I’d never finish. I had to work to nail down the scenes first, and I knew I could beef up the story in revision.

In general, the first round of edits is mostly about big-picture stuff, reading and noting where I have pressing questions. (I really believe the most valuable tool in my editing toolbox is knowing which annoying questions to ask writers!) Once the initial questions have been answered, I’ll dig into some line edits and let my inner editor start hacking away. And from there the edits just get increasingly nitpicky, until someone (my editor) says it’s done, pries it out of my hands, and saves me from myself.

Has your work changed your relationship to your cultural identity? If so, how?

It definitely has helped me to think about it and put down in words what felt so mystifying to me for years. It’s also allowed me the space to reflect and say it’s okay that I don’t always know exactly who I am; I’m more comfortable in gray areas now, sitting with no answers or certain, limited answers, accepting I’ll never get the whole.

I think you have to think about identity in order to write at all. If you’re doing your job as a memoirist, you’re going to get to know and understand yourself better. Though I actually think nothing has changed my relationship to my identity so much as having the opportunity to read and edit other writers — to know I’m not alone in thinking about how our experiences shape us, what it means to try to connect with others through our work.

What was the most enjoyable aspect of writing a memoir? Similarly, what was the most difficult and how did you overcome it?

In terms of the writing itself, there’s nothing better than knowing you wrote something true — and I don’t mean true as in nonfiction, although that also applies in my case; I mean something that you thought about and struggled over and finally got down on the page, and then were able to feel proud of. Writing is obviously never going to be perfect, but when it does click, it’s the best feeling. And given how impossible it can feel at, well, all the other times, I think that satisfaction you get when you know it’s working is the only reason to keep putting yourself through it.

The hardest part of writing a memoir for me is just figuring out that balance between the personal and the hopefully universal — knowing when your vulnerability is necessary, and when it’s just oversharing; justifying your story’s existence in the hope that it might be of some use to someone else. When you write a memoir, you’re opening up your life to terrifying criticism from all comers. You try not to think about any of that, of course — or your mom’s reaction — when you’re writing. But at some point, the book is out there and it’s both wonderful and scary that it will have a life of its own that you cannot control.

One of the more difficult things about publication was also one of the most exciting and affirming — I got to go on tour and talk with lots of people about the book. At the same time, every event also involved a great deal of emotional vulnerability, and I was going through it all while grieving for my dad. Genuine gratitude for everyone who engaged thoughtfully with my book is what helped me overcome the physical and emotional challenges inherent to putting myself out there. Hearing from people who tell me my book helped them feel a little bit more seen has been the best part of publication by far. Those readers who understand what you’re trying to say are the people every writer writes for, or should want to write for.

Who is an Asian writer you admire?

There are so, so many I’m glad to count as role models and friends — and I’ve talked a lot about how important Celeste Ng and Alexander Chee and Min Jin Lee are to me. Right now, I’d love to shout out my friend R.O. Kwon, who in addition to being a literary rock star is such a fierce and generous voice in our community and an absolute hero of mine. I’m so thankful for Reese’s voice, and as someone who grew up just wanting to see someone who looked like me doing what I wanted to do, I am glad that so many aspiring Korean American writers now have her to look up to.

Get Chung’s memoir on Amazon for $16.93.