Sarah Huang: An Exploration of the Human Experience
/Sarah Huang is a writer from New York City. Her works have appeared or are forthcoming in The Bookends Review, The Merrimack Review, and elsewhere. She tutors English and philosophy at the College of Staten Island.
Olivia Samimy speaks with Sarah about her writing process below.
Thank you for sharing “Limbo” with the Roanoke Review. It is a very touching story. Can you tell us a little more about the process of creating it?
“Limbo” came to me during an uncertain time in my life. I had just gotten laid off from my job at Barnes & Noble, and, in the absence of a routine, similar to the narrator, I fell into a slump. There was a lot of time for rumination during this transitional period. I found myself considering the lasting influences parents hold over their children, and whether certain illnesses like addiction and depression could be inherited. I wanted to craft a protagonist who would accurately capture the trauma of someone raised by a parent who struggled with addiction. But since I had little experience with addiction and its toxic effects within families, I compensated by combing through articles and medical studies to address my lack of knowledge. Writing “Limbo” required copious amounts of research and numerous drafts. Early drafts were written in third-person narration until I realized that only through first-person would the story convey the urgency and intimacy this confessional narrative deserved.
What made you choose crickets and cigarettes for symbols in “Limbo”?
I utilized crickets as a symbolic means to convey passiveness; instead of actively searching for a mate, male crickets stand in the same spot all night stridulating in hopes that a mate will seek them out. I imagine the narrator of “Limbo” felt the same way while sitting on her doorsteps and smoking the night away, trapped in a loop of motions while waiting for deliverance. Like the crickets, the narrator is stuck, but unlike the crickets, who cannot change their nature, the narrator is capable of taking charge of her life.
The concept of making “a lucky” for a pack of cigarettes is very interesting to me. When you choose which among the pack will be smoked last, you are inadvertently committing to smoking your way through the whole pack to reach it. The making of “a lucky” kickstarts a cyclic process in which the smoker sinks deeper into addiction—a toxic cycle which mirrors the narrator’s inability to move on from her upbringing. The pivotal moment occurs when she decides to smoke “the lucky” first, signifying a break in the cycle and the start of her healing.
I understand that you tutor philosophy, as well as English. Can you tell us a little more about your interest in philosophy? How does this influence your writing?
Tom Sleigh describes the path of a poet in his poem “Proof of Poetry” as “to live alone like a hermit philosopher.” I believe this is applicable to fiction writers as well. To be a writer, one must foremost be a philosopher. Like fiction and poetry, philosophy is an exploration of the human experience. Stories, then, are a frequency of philosophy fine-tuned for the elevated heart. My interest in philosophy has played a vital role in adding depth to my stories. I am particularly fond of existentialism; many of my writings are influenced by the philosophies of Sartre, Camus, and Kierkegaard.
What advice do you have for your fellow young writers?
There is honestly no way around it: writing is hard. For me, it’s the hardest thing I have ever attempted. I liken writing to mining in a dark cave—you don’t know what you’re searching for and you can’t see how much further there is to go. Each time you sit down to write, you are picking up the pickaxe and trudging willingly into the dark. It’s a grueling process, but if you are brave and persistent, you will mine some gems. Keep writing. And when you can’t write, read. Read widely—don’t stick to one genre. One of the best pieces of writing advice I ever heard was from the fiction writer Colum McCann: “The prose writers should read the poets. The poets should read the novelists. The playwrights should read the philosophers. The journalists should read the short story writers. The philosophers should read through the whole crew. In fact, we all should read the whole crew. Nobody makes it alone.”
Are there any current projects you’re working on that you can tell us about?
I am currently working on two projects. The first is a story about a widower’s transition to life after the loss of his wife. The story examines the widowhood effect and the possible factors that contribute to this phenomenon. But, ultimately, I’d like for my story to end on a hopeful note—that happiness can exist after the death of a loved one through rediscovery and reinvention of oneself.
As I continue my path as a writer, I find myself expanding into genres beyond fiction. My second project is a collection of poems. These poems focus on the contemplation of the human experience through sometimes nonhuman mediums, by applying human constructs to examine what are simply different ways of existing.
Thanks for speaking with us. Is there anything else you’d like to add?
I want to thank Roanoke Review for featuring “Limbo” and my process for its creation. “Limbo” began as a much different story than what it is today. The original version focused on Rosa, the old woman who collected cans. Rosa was inspired by an old woman who, every Thursday evening, rain or snow, would make her way through my neighborhood with a shopping cart to collect cans. After witnessing a cruel encounter towards the old woman in which a neighbor spoke harshly to her for rummaging through his bins, I wanted to humanize her person. The first threads of the story that would become “Limbo” began with her. I wanted to write about a character who is, at best, ignored by society and, at worst, ridiculed. Can collectors are often viewed by society as little better than homeless; they exist, but you try not to notice them. I suppose this is because most people do not like to look at what makes them uncomfortable, as if the act of rummaging through another’s trash as a means for survival is somehow dehumanizing and not a commendable show of a tenacious will to live. A significant percentage of can collectors are senior citizens and immigrants who struggle with obtaining conventional jobs. They do what they can to contribute to their families and lessen their financial burdens. The character Rosa was written as a tribute to those misunderstood individuals who have been wronged for doing what they must.
Read Huang’s most recent Roanoke Review publication here.
