Norah Piehl

Julie Buxbaum’s new YA novel balances a story of first love with a look at the ripple effects of 9/11 for today’s teens.

Hope and Other Punchlines is a sweet and funny romance set at a summer camp. But its main characters—unlikely camp counselors Abbi and Noah—happen to live in a New Jersey town that lost dozens of its residents on September 11, 2001.

And even though that tragedy happened nearly 16 years before the events in Buxbaum’s novel, their community still lives in its shadow. Seventeen-year-old Abbi definitely feels like she can’t move past it. Although she can’t remember it, she became a symbol of hope after a photo of her as a baby being rescued from the World Trade Center day care became famous around the world. Abbi’s fellow camp counselor, Noah, is an aspiring journalist and political comedian, and he wants to interview all of the survivors captured in the iconic picture of Abbi—but he may have his own personal reasons linked to the tragedy for doing so.

We caught up with Buxbaum by phone from her home in California to ask her what it was like to write a 9/11 novel for a generation that wasn’t even born when it happened.

OK, I have to ask: Where were you on September 11, 2001?
I was in Boston in law school. And my husband—who was my boyfriend at the time—was in London, and he’s the one who called me and told me to turn on the television. And it was this moment when the world suddenly shifted: We were in one world that morning and a completely different world when we went to bed that night.

These memories are so vivid for those of us who were old enough. Was it strange to realize that by writing a novel about 9/11, even one that’s essentially set in the present, you were writing about something that today’s kids learn about from history books? 
That was the entire purpose of writing this book. It was born out of a tweet written by a teen I really admire. She always has really smart things to say, but in this tweet, she was basically complaining about having to learn about 9/11 every year on the anniversary. When I saw her tweet, I burst into tears, and it occurred to me that although those events seem to me like they happened yesterday, my readers were babies or not yet even born. It’s ancient history to them. So I wanted to find a way to make 9/11 accessible and digestible to this generation, for whom 9/11 feels like what Pearl Harbor feels like to me.

Writing a character like Noah, who’s an aspiring comedian, is a good way to inject some
humor into what could otherwise be a bleak story. Was it hard for you to balance the funny and tragic parts of your novel?
It was hard, but one of my goals for the book was to make people laugh, not just to make them cry—and sometimes both in the same paragraph. I find that in real life, people can be funniest in their darkest moments. It’s a way that we can cope with those difficult times. So I wanted to explore that in the book. And more importantly, I wanted to make a statement about how we use comedy to endure pain.

What were you trying to explore about memory and what we remember, and why?
I lost my mom quite young, which is something I return to again and again in my fiction. But one of the things that I think about constantly is about how a big loss can feel so traumatic, but over time we lose our memories of the small moments that make up our days. Memory—what we lose and what we retain—haunts me and is a theme I return to repeatedly in my writing and in my life, especially my life as a parent.

I had heard about the pretty terrible rate of sickness and death that persists among people who were at the World Trade Center site, but I really hadn’t understood the extent of it. Why did you decide to work this health issue into the novel?
I think it’s really important for people to remember, especially since it’s not consistently covered in the media. This is one of those tragedies that has reverberated around the globe in countless political ways, but the actual explosion and its aftermath continues to perpetuate sickness and death among survivors—there are thousands of types of cancers directly linked to 9/11 exposure. And I worry that because we don’t talk about it, people just don’t know. There’s this feeling that we have moved on, but those who are still coping with the physical or emotional effects can’t move on.

Your characters model different ways of coping with trauma and grief. What do you want readers to take away from their resilience?
I think everyone processes loss and trauma differently, but it’s all hugely damaging. And it’s interesting to think how lives change course as a result of those defining moments. In some cases, they propel us forward, and in other cases, they propel us backward. Losing my mom was the worst thing that ever happened to me, but I also think it changed who I am as a person—partly in some wonderful, miraculous ways. I would trade anything to go back and have it be different, of course, but I can’t discount that I am who I am because of those experiences. 

In Watch Over Me, Nina LaCour’s first novel since her 2018 Michael L. Printz Medal-winning We Are Okay, 18-year-old Mila is placed as an intern on an idyllic farm after aging out of the foster care system. Mila becomes unsettled when she discovers that the farm is haunted by ghostly figures and tokens from her old life begin to appear. BookPage spoke with LaCour about haunting, healing and feeling at home in ourselves.

Mila’s story stands in stark contrast to tropes about the foster care system as neglectful or abusive. Why did you choose to tell a different story?
I wanted to write a loose retelling of The Turn of the Screw with Mila as the character of the governess. I ended up straying far from that original idea, but at the time I asked myself what it would look like to move Henry James’ novella into a contemporary setting and to add more expansiveness to the story—more characters, a wider range of emotion and more context.

As I explored these ideas, I remembered reading a San Francisco Chronicle article about a couple who had adopted a large number of children out of the foster system over a period of many years; it sparked the inspiration for that part of the story. I wanted a lot of love in the story because there was a lot of darkness, too. My aim was to write the story of people who had endured horrible things but who had arrived at a place where they would be cared for while they worked through their individual traumas.

Mila’s growing confidence during her life on the farm is interwoven with increasingly intense memories of why she was placed in foster care in the first place. How did you arrive at this structure? 
The structure was very difficult to get right. I wanted to write a frame novel. I've always loved that structure; some of my favorite Gothic novels are written this way. Frankenstein is a frame novel, and The Turn of the Screw is, too. I thought we'd start with Mila's life as it is now, then we'd enter her past and stay there for the duration of that part of her story, then we’d finally return to the farm for the rest of her journey.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our starred review of Watch Over Me.

But as hard as I tried, I just couldn't make it work that way. While I loved the concept of the tidy frame, I think the messier, more tangled version is better suited to Mila's story. Memory is messy, trauma is messy. So it makes sense that they didn't fit neatly into the center of the story and would instead need to rise up over and over, surprising Mila, challenging her, making her take notice even when she'd rather forget.

I don't write chronologically—I write all over the place, working on whatever scene is calling to me when I sit down to work—and then I fit everything together, so there was quite a bit of moving those past scenes around from draft to draft. 


I loved the appearance of the book’s very mysterious, ambiguous ghosts. Were they inspired by any particular ghost stories?
The moments in ghost stories I always like best are when the ghosts first appear and cause a reaction in the character. I rarely care as much about what they do next. The 2017 film A Ghost Story was really powerful in that way for me. It was a movie about grief in which a ghost in a white sheet—borderline comical—shows up as a visual representation of Rooney Mara's character's grief.

I wanted Watch Over Me's ghosts to be very real, but I also knew they'd be metaphorical as well. It was tricky to get them right, but I feel like we're all surrounded by ghosts all the time, whether or not we want to look at them. Ghosts of who we once were, ghosts of the people we've lost or lost touch with, ghosts of what might have been if our lives had moved in different directions . . . I was drawn to the idea of these ghosts swarming around, living their own ghost-lives, and what impact they would have on the living residents of the farm. Who would be afraid of them, who would be at peace with them. What all of it might mean. 


The farm’s setting is so atmospheric—idyllic, isolated, tucked between the hills and the ocean. Was this setting inspired by any real place(s) that you read about or visited or have lived in?
Oh yes, absolutely. I've always lived in Northern California and it's my favorite place in the world. For a while, my wife, Kristyn, photographed weddings and I'd assist her. We'd drive a few hours north from San Francisco to photograph at all these lovely little tucked-away farms that you'd never even know were there. Then when I was doing research for the novel I visited Nye Ranch, a beautiful produce and flower farm in the Mendocino area. It's right against the coastline—one of the most hauntingly beautiful places I've been to—and I was glad when the flower farmer there told me that lots of the area farms are haunted and that she'd seen a ghost at her own farm!

You often write deeply introspective protagonists, and Mila is no exception. What draws you to write about characters with such rich and self-reflective inner lives? Has your approach to these characters changed over time?
I live quite a bit in my own head, I guess! This has always been true for me, so it's the way most of my characters have turned out as well. I had the privilege of working with Yiyun Li when I was in grad school at Mills College in Oakland, California, and she was a visiting professor there. She told our workshop group that she always loved it when she had a chatty narrator, and I have had the pleasure of one of those—Emi from Everything Leads to You. But apart from Emi, my narrators tend to be the quiet, thoughtful, reserved type.

"I think growing up is really beautiful and really hard, and we do it over and over again all our lives."

Mila is maybe my most reserved narrator of all. She is concealing so much of her life and wants so badly to do the right thing, to be good, to be easy and useful and pleasant. In order to be these things for her new family, she has to suppress the more difficult parts of herself. She does a lot of internal navigating in order to be who she thinks they want her to be.

In terms of how my approach has changed, over time I've allowed my characters to be a little messier. I've gotten them into situations that don't have clear answers, because I'm learning that life is full of uncertainty and many shades of gray. 

Mila is at a pivotal moment in her life. She’s just aged out of the foster care system, but she’s also not quite ready for all the responsibilities of being an adult. You depict moments where she poignantly longs to either be older or younger than she is. What do you hope readers take away from Mila’s feelings in these moments?
I think growing up is really beautiful and really hard, and we do it over and over again all our lives. It can be painful, and it's only natural to wish for a time when things felt simple or to look into the future and imagine how it will be when this particular phase of growth is over. Mila longs for both, and seeing herself in contrast to the younger residents of the farm makes the fact that she isn't a child anymore—that she's responsible for healing herself—starker. But what a gift it is to have people by your side, loving you and caring about you while you do that hard work with yourself. Discovering who these people are and growing to trust them is part of Mila’s journey, too. 


Having Mila serve as a teacher and start to recognize her own talents as a budding educator was such a great way to illustrate how she’s straddling this border between childhood and adulthood. Your own background is full of teachers and teaching, in your own personal history as well as in your family. How did your personal relationship to/experience with teaching impact this part of Mila’s story? 
I used to be a reading tutor for kids at a public elementary school in Oakland. I met one-on-one with the same students over the course of the school year. The character of Lee was inspired by the kids I worked with. They were so young and so eager to please, and their emotional wounds felt very close to the surface—and I felt deeply unsure of myself and terribly unequipped to help. I cared, and I tried my best, and I got some things right and many other things wrong. Teaching is fraught that way, for me. I love it, but sometimes I look back at some of my teaching decisions and wish I could do them over.

"We all have wounds. We all carry damage. It makes us fully human."

Another incredible teacher I studied under at Mills College was Ruth Saxton. She taught a class on pedagogy with a teaching practicum that went along with it. She brought so much wisdom to her classes but she gave us so few answers. I used to wish she'd give us more, but in retrospect I realize that she was modeling how to teach. Teaching is so often an act of meeting the student where she is and offering her the resources and encouragement she needs in order to get to the next step. It's more about asking questions than it is about delivering knowledge. Mila inherently understands some of that, which is why Terry, the father figure of the family, considers her a gifted teacher. 

At one point, Mila says, “Maybe the fear doesn’t ever actually go away. Maybe we have to keep on working.” What advice or encouragement would you give to teens doing that kind of work?
I would say that as much as I'd like to tell them otherwise, for most of us our wounds won't ever heal completely. But also, that it's OK. That we own it—whatever it is—and we can use it in all sorts of ways. We can use it for art. It can be a source of empathy and strength. We all have wounds. We all carry damage. It makes us fully human. The sooner we realize that we're responsible for ourselves, that we're strong enough to look at the things we've lost, the things we've done or that have been done to us, the mistakes or missteps we've made, the sooner we'll begin feel at home in ourselves. 

Let’s end on a lighter note: I found the scenes at the farmers market, where the atmosphere is such a contrast to the world of the farm, so appealing. Do you shop at farmers’ markets? If so, what do you love about them? What’s your favorite fruit and vegetable? Is there something you especially love to make or cook with the produce you purchase?
I do! I love the pleasures of seasonal produce and the way farmers markets show the progression of a year, especially because here in San Francisco where the climate is mild year-round, we don't have the stark changes of season that other places do.

I love the pomegranates and squashes and citrus and bitter greens of winter; the persimmons and pears of fall; the berries and artichokes of spring; and, best of all, the tomatoes and eggplants and basil and stone fruit of summer. I love arriving at a farmers market and finding that strawberries have arrived.

Meeting friends at the market and lugging our big bags of produce around, chatting over coffee about how we are and what we'll be cooking later—that’s one of the simple pleasures of life that I miss so much right now, in the time of COVID-19 and as wildfires rage across my home state. But I know we'll get to do it again, and it will be even sweeter when it happens.

With a reputation for ambitious prose and surreal storytelling, A.S. King is one of the most critically acclaimed YA writers working today, as well as an accomplished author of middle grade novels published under the name Amy Sarig King. She wrote her new YA novel, Switch, after suffering an unthinkable loss and trying to find a way to “soften to life.” The book takes place in a world where time has stopped—it’s been June 23, 2020, for nine months. While working on a school project, teen javelin prodigy Truda stumbles onto a way to repair time.

Your acknowledgments reveal that this book started when you were asked to give a speech about time. Can you tell us about that speech and what exactly is going on with time at the beginning of the book?
In writing the keynote for the launch of the 2018 edition of the Johnson County, Kansas, Library’s teen literary magazine, Elementia, I invented a clock based on psychologist Robert Plutchik’s emotion wheel. I hadn’t thought about stopped time at all for that speech—just about the concept of the clock and how we spend our time on Earth ignoring emotions, especially as we get older. I wanted to give everyone in the venue a new way to think about how to spend their time. A new way to look at emotions.

As for what’s happened to time at the beginning of Switch: It has mysteriously stopped. Or the clocks have, anyway. Seems like someone needed a break and just turned the world off. It seemed natural, in that situation, that adults would have to distract children from the whole mess with something lackluster, like a school project or an essay. This is where Plutchik’s Clock walked back through the saloon doors in the hands of our narrator, Truda Becker, and said, “Howdy, Amy.”

When did you first learn about Plutchik, and what drew you to incorporating his ideas into Switch?
I love Plutchik and his work. I’m unsure of exactly when I came across him, but I have read every one of his textbooks. I found him during a time in my life when I needed to be reminded that emotions are real, important and natural after a lifetime of having mine denied.

When humans slow down, they can usually see all the parts of their lives they are running from.

One of my favorite things to do in my books is share cool random knowledge in order to help readers make sense of their world, so in Switch, Tru explores psychology, from developmental to psychoevolutionary, in school. I was so excited when I wrote that speech for the library’s keynote, to introduce a few hundred people to this concept of the Plutchik’s Clock. Now I am even more excited to share the idea more broadly. Heck yes! This is what Robert Plutchik did for me. He made me want to spread the word about how smart he was—and in doing so, he has helped me help other people, which is why I was born.

Tell us about Tru. How did you develop her character and find her voice?
Tru wanted to be written. I know this because she migrated from two other books I’d been writing. She and her talent for javelin seemed to want to talk, so I let them.

I wrote Switch during the hardest time in my life. My teenage daughter Gracie died in 2018, about five months after I made that speech in Kansas, and I wasn’t able to finish the book I was writing. I wasn’t able to do anything, really. I didn’t think I’d ever write another book, to be honest. But four months later, I wrote a poem about a switch, and it wouldn’t end. I sat down at the desk, threw away Tru’s original introduction and pages, and dove into this poem about her home life to see what it might yield.

I think all of my characters find their voices through experiences I have in my own life. In Switch, I wanted to explore how the world treats girls with skill. How their entire environment eats them without them knowing it. I wanted her to walk through that with her head up. Her confidence is what I’m most proud of. She may not be super confident, but she has the confidence to know what she is walking through and name it. That’s a huge step in healing.

Can you describe Tru’s home? Why did you choose this setting for the story?
It was the choice of the book, not me. Though I do start out telling the reader about the switch. In the house, there is a switch, but Daddy says no one is allowed to touch it. He builds boxes, often out of plywood, around the switch as a safety measure, and then he builds more and more boxes that take over rooms and hallways. As the story develops, it twists and turns and feels a bit like a tilt-a-whirl. So the house and its series of boxes become one, too.

We need to teach young humans how to nourish themselves and give them ample time to do it. Now.

How to describe it? Chaos, I guess. The chaos of four different people coming to terms with the same realization but on different levels and timelines. Isn’t that how every family deals with traumatic things that happen to the family unit? In Switch, life imitates each family member’s psychological wrestling. So their house becomes a plywood carnival. It looks great from the outside, though. Of course. Doesn’t it always?

Although Switch doesn’t take place in our current moment, the ways its characters’ lives have been reconfigured are going to feel familiar and perhaps even a bit prescient for readers. Is Switch a different book because of the COVID-19 pandemic? How has your thinking about the book changed, knowing that readers will bring their experiences of the past year or so to the book?
I am a cosmic sort of person; I have a brain of granola and believe in astrology. So to me, this is all kismet in a very personal way. It was me who needed time to stop. When I lost Gracie, I was unable to do anything normal. I couldn’t even talk or think right for months, even years. I still can’t some days.

Once I could try to work, I started writing a book that made me stop time for eight hours a workday. Like Daddy in the book, I needed a reset. A deep breath. Anything. Like Daddy in the book, I needed to somehow access my emotions again and soften to life.

The kismet happens when a pandemic comes along, and suddenly everyone else is living in a world where they don’t know what day or month it is either, and they are suddenly forced to live entirely different lives. That’s just weird. The books come from personal realities. The surrealism comes from trauma. The cosmic stuff gives me a joyous shrug because it feels like a bigger puzzle, and I love puzzles; that’s why I’m a writer.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our starred review of Switch.

But yes, I think readers who have just experienced this series of quarantines and shutdowns will relate in several ways. When humans slow down, they can usually see all the parts of their lives they are running from. That is essentially the cold open of Switch.

How did writing Switch change the way you think about time?
The reason I was invited to speak about time at Johnson County Library was because my work pretty much always deals with or plays with time. So it’s what I’m thinking about most days—it’s my lens. In the case of Switch, what you give your time and attention to is important. Growth is what the switch is.

I wager we should be flicking switches all day—finding new ways to see old things. Finding new things. Growing. That is what time is for. For a decade of my life, I grew all my food from seed in my greenhouse to harvest in the field. I know that every centimeter of growth counts. When we mistake ignoring emotionally teachable moments as valiantly “getting over it,” we skip vital cogs in the machine. The machine turns out people whose clocks are set to eat themselves. The imbalance between personal emotional learning and book or social learning is always going to show in the crop. We need to teach young humans how to nourish themselves and give them ample time to do it. Now.

I firmly believe that we need to center the mental and emotional health of children. And ourselves. If we all don’t take or make time to learn how to rest and heal, we are going to continue to pass down intergenerational trauma that is only going to get worse. We need a giant reset. If I ran the world, I’d give us all a plump vacation with a Plutchik’s Clock and a ton of mental health care. And some of Daddy’s cooking.

Author photo courtesy of Krista Schumow Photography, 2011.