Emma Cline on The Girls

It survived the hype. Or rather: the oh-so-predictable buzz quickly gained substance, morphing into a wave of critical acclaim and commercial success. Ultimately, Emma Cline's readership was less interested in her alleged advance, or that she had managed to write a novel while still in her twenties, than by the possibilities presented by her tremendous debut.

The Girls is, one hopes and suspects, a springboard for what is to come; though in and of itself, it is a compelling horror story for our times, a probing – and prescient – examination of how a man of little substance, wholly lacking in courage, can somehow fashion enough fascination around so little to lead others to carry out unthinking acts of violence. The girls of the story ultimately kill for Russell (this much is revealed within the novel's first few pages). But how they rationalise their actions, how they construct the hazy allure that attracts young Evie Boyd to want to join their group: this is the dramatic backbone of Cline's story.

A complex character study that shed new light on the complexities of social acceptance and the draining trials of youth when it was published in hardback in 2016, The Girls proved to be one of the year's finest literary debuts. In anticipation of the paperback release this May, The Skinny caught up with Cline by email to talk about the book's genesis and reception, and what might come next. 

The Skinny: From the start, The Girls operates from the springboard of a retrospective opening, one in which the victims know that the ‘sweet dailiness of their lives is gone.’ How important was it to create that thread of dread that runs the length of the book? As a reader, you feel almost complicit simply waiting for a return to the opening.

Emma Cline: I liked the idea of introducing the crime very quickly, almost to redirect the attention of the reader towards the more emotional and psychological crimes that take place in the book. You know in the first few pages what happens, and even, generally, who commits the crime. That leaves the question of why it happened, and why Evie feels culpable – questions of psychology and intent, not criminal fact.

What were your intentions regarding Evie: specifically how, as readers, we might view her? From the point of view of audience sympathy, and how those around her (the men in particular) treat her, are any of her actions to be criticised?

There’s nothing fun about a blameless narrator. I wanted to write a character that resisted an easy reading – in many ways, Evie is what we’d think of as a ‘victim’ of the people around her, but as a writer, a character who is only at the mercy of others doesn’t keep my attention. I found it interesting to explore the ways in which Evie was drawn to violence and a certain kind of milieu, and how she felt partly responsible for her own manipulations. She seeks out certain types of people and situations, and I think that desire for heightened experience, heightened attention, often makes her feel like she’s called her own pain into being, or that she’s an active participant in it.

Do you think that in some quarters, the novel has been reviewed against the distraction of the backdrop of your own story – and, therefore, unfairly? Ultimately, I think the book works as a character study, and to snipe at it (as some reviews have) for lacking, say, modish form is to perhaps miss the form the story actually requires? The narrative is relatively straightforward – the book’s complexities lie in the language, the relationships, its thematic intent.

I think it’s tricky to write about a subject that’s somewhat sordid while trying to actually foreground emotion and character. Anyone expecting a traditional mystery or thriller novel would have been disappointed by the book, I’m sure. I knew what my project was in writing this book, what themes and modes I was circling around, so if a review doesn’t take the actual book I wrote into account, and instead reviews a book I could have written or should have written, it’s easy to separate myself from those things.

Russell is a strange kind of demon. He’s not much of a man, not a particularly compelling figure. But like weak, exploitative men throughout the ages, he seems to know how to create a community of belief around him – to allow his ‘followers’ to project onto him.

I liked the idea of draining the cliché of the charismatic cult leader of any real charisma – as an adult, looking back, Evie can see what a pathetic character Russell is, banal in his evil and manipulations. The reader can see it, too. But as a teenager, attuned to attention and narrative, the myths he spins are attractive and potent. Still, though, I wanted him to remain a peripheral character – the real draw of the group for Evie is Suzanne, not Russell.

It’s easy to default to postulating on how a new novel might work onscreen. There are several desirable roles for female actors in the book but does Russell present a slight problem in that respect? You would have to ensure that a ‘large’ actor/performance didn’t turn him into a charismatic lead. Because he’s not that, is he?

Exactly – as a character, he really pales alongside the women who form the heart of the book. I found that an interesting part of being interviewed about the novel, when questions focused on Russell, mistaking him for the main character. I think that’s a function of how these narratives are usually structured around men, and how we expect them to be at the center of the story.

The novel is at its most gripping when it examines the complex negotiations of girlhood: the close-quarters social politics of female adolescence. As a male, my experience mirrors to some degree that of the guileless and dismissive youths in the book who lack the emotional intelligence and social skills to properly intrigue Evie and, perhaps, the reader?

I liked, again, this idea of teenage girls, who in so many ways are seen as powerless or manipulated by others, who actually are deeply vivid and potent beings, attuned to myth-making in a way the teenage boys around them can’t be. Keeping the men and boys peripheral was also a way to talk about female friendship, to focus on the murky ambiguities and power structures that underline those relationships, rather than a more traditional love story. Hopefully the male characters aren’t one-dimensional, but certainly they are kept purposefully in the background, and aren’t meant to draw the reader’s interest in the same way the women and girls do.

We leave Evie as an adult. She exhibits an almost brutal, continuing self-assessment, and fear, also. Do you find yourself examining her as a continuing character, and what she might become? She strikes me as a victim still working hard on how not to be one.

I think there is such a familiar story about victims and redemption – that trauma will improve you as a person, or teach you important lessons. I liked writing a character who doesn’t fit that narrative, and who, this many years later, still hasn’t “learned” anything. In many ways, Evie is stuck in this moment of adolescence. Her life hasn’t gotten better and better – it’s stalled. It’s discomfiting, to think we might not ever get over certain things, but to me, it felt more true to how life operates, which is often without moral, reason or corrective.

What did writing The Girls teach you about yourself as a writer and how has that manifested itself in the creative process for your next novel?

It was interesting to look at the book after I’d finished it – to see what themes and symbols recurred without me being consciously aware of writing them. There is something comforting about trusting that, by following your interests and attention, a book will naturally hit on themes and narratives that don’t require any formal effort. It’s nice to trust the subconscious, in that way.