I recently finished Victoria Shorr’s novel Fatherland and found myself sitting in silence for a few minutes after turning the final page, thinking, “this is why I read fiction.” Set in a midcentury Midwestern suburb, the novel traces the long aftermath of a father’s abandonment of his family, unfolding less through traditional scenes and more through reflection and interiority. Read my full review.

I was especially drawn to the story’s narrative voice and structure, and was delighted to have the chance to ask Shorr a few questions about how the book came together. 

In addition to discussing her writing process, she also shares how her path to publication was shaped by her commitment to social justice, time away from writing, and the persistence to continue through years of rejection as a writer.

I was truly inspired by Victoria’s story and process, and I hope you enjoy the interview. This post contains light spoilers, so if you haven’t yet read the novel, you may want to return to it after you’ve finished it. Get your copy at Bookshop.

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What first drew you to this particular family and setting? Was there an image, moment, or emotional question that sparked the novel?

It started with the image of the nightmare, which comes as a stealth attack on Josie, who is now a healthy, happy adult, far—she thinks—beyond the reach of her toxic father. 

It’s been years since she even thought about him.  She wasn’t quite sure exactly when he died. But as the Buddhists say, “Everyone dies, but no one is dead,” which I’ve always thought of as consolation, but here proved to be actually a threat.

I saw a movie, years ago, with a similar scene—“Fanny and Alexander,” by Bergman, with the same kind of nightmare—a dead but still dangerous stepfather— that comes almost as an attack. 

The idea of “Fatherland” echoes throughout the novel in both literal and emotional ways. What does that term mean to you within the context of this story?

Fatherland is almost a place on the soul’s map, where the father still reigns supreme in the [grown] child’s psyche.  I use the term to denote this place, which though abstract, exists. 

Although the novel moves across multiple perspectives, Josie carries its emotional weight. How did you decide she would play the main role rather than exploring the impact on all the children?

She was the one who emerged in thinking about this story, being the oldest and the only girl. The youngest one, Timmy, escaped unscathed, since he never even knew life with his father, only the stable, pleasant life that took form with Lora and the grandparents.  Will has his own chapter, with Martin, as they circle close together for one brief, ultimately futile, grasp at closeness. 

The novel moves between Lora, Josie, and Martin through an omniscient lens. What drew you to that narrative voice, and how did you think about balancing intimacy with breadth?

I’m not sure what you mean with this really interesting question. The truth is, I write only half-consciously, I think. I hear the story unrolling, and I follow the voices. This one “wanted” to start, as the Brazilians would put it, with Howard and Electra, as witnesses.  A sort of Greek chorus, as someone put it. Once they were talking, it was natural to go on that way, from witness to witness, participant to participant. 

Much of the novel unfolds through reflection and interior rumination rather than a conventional chain of scenes. How did you approach structuring a story built on introspection while still maintaining narrative momentum? Did that structure emerge naturally in early drafts, or did it take shape through revision?

It emerged naturally. I knew where the story was going, so the structure was in place when I started writing. One thing I realized as I went along was that there was an energy around Martin that was enlivening, so I made sure to include him in as many scenes as possible. There wasn’t really any substantive revision, because of the fact that the story was already mapped out.

The ending feels as though the entire novel has been quietly orienting toward that final note. Did you know from early on where the story would land, or did the ending reveal itself over time?

The idea for this story started with Josie’s nightmare. I actually had to fight with the publishers to keep the ending—there was the thought to end with Josie and Lora in the car, going into the house, victorious, after their visit to the cemetery.  But to me, the nightmare was the whole point of the story.  So it had to be.

You came to publishing after a long career in education. How did that transition unfold, and did your previous work shape the way you approach storytelling?

Actually, though I know it looks like I had a career in education, what I had was a passion for social justice that led me to co-founding two progressive girls’ schools, one in L.A. and one on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in S.D. I never worked in education; I just worked to found these schools as the most direct path for young women to real empowerment. The first one, the Archer School for Girls, came from my shock at watching the treatment of Anita Hill by the white men in the Senate during the Clarence Thomas hearings. The second one, the Pine Ridge Girls School, came from an article in the New York Times mentioning that 1 in 4 babies on the Pine Ridge was born with fetal alcohol syndrome to teenage mothers.

Neither of these situations seemed tolerable to me, and I was moved in both cases to put my writing work aside, for years in the first case, and do something.

I think this passion, that was born in me from growing up in the sixties, when we breathed social activism in the air, was what kept me going as a writer, through years and years of rejection. I was living first in Brazil and then in L.A., and I just couldn’t get a yes for any of my work. I say, half, but only half, joking, that if there had been any bridges in L.A., I would have jumped off.  

It wasn’t a joke though. One turns to the work again and again—what’s wrong with it? What’s wrong with me?  But then a friend reads it and loves it, and you go on. You get another idea, you write another book, another friend loves it, though no editor or even a sub-agent.  

I didn’t expect to get my work published, ever, I was resigned to sending it out to friends, but then someone got it to Starling Lawrence, the editor in chief then at W.W. Norton, and to my amazement, he said yes. And then, there it was.