Courtesy of the publisher's press kit (Bancroft Press)

What inspired you to write "Ring," and how does it reflect your personal experiences with chronic illness?
My inspiration to write “Ring” initially stemmed from my experience with complicated grief when I was younger. On and off for a few decades, I thought about writing a story about a person struggling so much with grief that they consider ending their own life, because having that feeling, that impetus, is a common facet of complicated grief.

So the vague contours of the story were there years before I became chronically ill: the sanctuary in the snow, the dog unknowingly brought into a life or death situation, and the dilemma that the dog’s presence poses to the main character. The story was about teasing out what moves the needle on a person’s internal barometer regarding their ability to go on after significant loss.

But I did not sit down (or sometimes lie down!) to actually write the story until I was several years into a chronic illness triggered by a too-long-undiagnosed case of neurological Lyme Disease. The main reason I didn’t start writing before my illness was that I was too busy. I was a public interest lawyer and always focused on cases and projects, and I never put aside the time to write anything for myself that was longer than a poem or an Op Ed. When I became too sick to work on deadline but recovered enough to write small amounts at a time, even if from bed, I realized I could begin writing this story.

At that point, I was experiencing a sense of physical and social isolation due to being sick. I had also discovered, in my attempts to recover from my illness, a range of healing modalities that calm the nervous system and release trauma stored in the body. The relief I felt from these modalities, and from learning to understand the mind-body connection, gave me another entry point to the story.

Your previous work as a poet and public interest lawyer brings a unique perspective to your fiction writing. How do you feel these roles have influenced the narrative and thematic depth of "Ring"?
Both likely influenced how short and spare the novel is. In general, I usually overwrite and then need to edit down. Except with poetry, and except with legal prose, both of which are very compact forms of writing. I think my background in poetry led to me writing the novel in vignettes instead of chapters, and to the moody and descriptive nature of the narrative and its tendency to invoke emotion through observations of seemingly small things—a gesture, a pause, an inhalation, a change in the weather.

My legal background led me to think always of the bigger issues evoked by the story. And, probably, the dialogue—there is a lot of dialogue that picks apart philosophical and emotional questions and examines their logic. I think that’s likely very influenced from my training and practice as a public interest lawyer.

"Ring" intricately weaves themes of loss, hope, and healing. Can you talk about the research or personal introspection that went into exploring these complex topics?
A lot of what may seem like researched material actually came out of my own experiences with loss, depression, and searching for spiritual meaning and healing. A lot of the odd therapies described are things I actually tried, some of which I continue to use. A lot of the dialogue is, in a sense, conversations I’ve had with myself.

I have done a lot of reading that is relevant to the discussions of trauma, loss, and healing in the book, and some of that reading is listed in the further resources section at the end. In particular, I’ve read a lot about the mind-body connection in the processing of trauma, from writers like Gabor Matè, Bessel van der Kolk, Amy Scher, and Bernie Siegal. I also tried to read various material about the philosophy around suicide and prevention of suicide, such as Jennifer Michael Hecht’s Stay.

Something I researched a lot was the material connected to Attawapiskat, the real Cree community situated near the land on which most of the fictional story takes place. I wanted my portrayal to be accurate, culturally competent, and based not on mainstream media depictions of the community but rather on first-person accounts and interviews with people who actually live there. In addition, I paid multiple sensitivity readers to evaluate those sections of the book and give me feedback.

The protagonist, Lee, embarks on an emotional odyssey that is both deeply personal and universally relatable. What was your process for developing such a multi-dimensional character?
Lee actually entered my mind fully formed. It’s hard to explain to anyone who doesn’t write fiction—and I had a hard time understanding it myself until I encountered other fiction writers who have similar processes—but Lee seemed like a person I was observing. I often felt that Lee was telling me what to write, rather than my writing telling Lee what to think or say or do. I suspect Lee in part developed from a particular feeling I had watching the actor/comedian Tig Notaro in her limited series, ONE MISSISSIPPI. That character had a specific mix of despair and resilience, strength and vulnerability, depression and dry humor, and it was exhibited in the context of a trip taken to make sense of a recent loss. Lee is definitely not that character, but was in some sense influenced by that character.

I also tried to combine in Lee some of my personality traits with some of the traits my spouse has—qualities that sometimes put us in conflict with one another emotionally. By merging some of these qualities into one person, it allowed me to try to understand those qualities, and us as people, from a different perspective.

Sometimes writing characters, for me, is about trying to understand someone or something. One example is Susan, Lee’s spouse. Susan is Jewish, and anxious, straightforward, and action-oriented. Lee is both in awe of her and irritated and put off by her. They love each other, but they also alienate each other, especially in the way they cope with grief. I’m in an interethnic marriage where I’m the anxious, action-oriented Jew (but also the one who gets depressed!) and I took the writing of Lee’s character, and Susan’s, as an opportunity to try to put myself in my spouse’s shoes a little bit and see my tendencies from the outside, from the place of stunned bewilderment where my spouse often seems to land.

The novel sets a profound meditation against a plot-driven backdrop. How did you balance these elements to maintain reader engagement throughout?
While there is movement in the plot—travel of various sorts—most of the action is emotional and psychological. The tension—the feeling that makes the reader want to turn the page—is largely psychological tension.

Because of the slow and meditative quality of the book, I was actually surprised when all of my beta readers, and my agent, called the book “a page-turner.” I think I actually laughed out loud the first time someone called it that. But if you think about it, even in the most action-oriented books or movies, the most heightened sense of tension often comes from the emotions that the characters feel and, in turn, cause the reader to feel.

I had a natural tendency, while writing the novel, to end most sections either on a note of emotional suspense or tension or a moment of emotional release. I think it is this ebb and flow that maintains the reader engagement. Along with, of course, the overarching question of what Lee and other characters will decide to do.

Environmental sensibilities and the spiritual connection to nature play significant roles in "Ring." Could you share your inspiration for incorporating these elements into the story?
I have two answers to this question.

The first is that I myself feel a spiritual connection to nature and think it’s necessary to healing. It’s also something that people who do not spend a lot of time in nature often don’t understand, and I wanted to show it to them, not just tell them.

In terms of the specific natural environment, I’ve always felt a spiritual pull to vast northern spaces. And when I am in certain psychological states, these environments make sense to me. After I experienced a loss in my early 20s, New Jersey experienced an ice storm that left everything covered in sheets of ice, to the extent that the trees and the roads appeared to be encased in glass. It was difficult to drive. It was difficult to walk. It lasted for weeks. And I felt a sense of real relief existing in this environment, because it matched my internal state, and the alignment made it easier to exist in the world. I don’t know if that’s when I started associating the landscapes and language of winter with the internal freeze and thaw that happen after great loss, but I do have that association.

The second answer is quite different. After I had finished a draft of “Ring,” another writer sent me an article encouraging fiction writers to include climate change in their stories. Because climate change is part of life now, and if we ignore it in our stories, it’s easier to ignore it in the world. And it’s not something we should ignore. I was ashamed to realize I’d written a whole novel that takes place in the subarctic and had not even mentioned, much less described, the impact of climate change there. So, I went back and wove it into the narrative, where it fits very naturally because, in a way, Lee is going through a type of internal climate change.

Your ability to paint vivid scenes and evoke strong emotions with descriptive language is notable. Can you share some insights into how you approach the craft of writing to achieve such vividness?
I think very visually. When I read, I see the story inside my head like it’s a movie. When someone describes something to me, I see it. So, when I wrote the scenes in “Ring,” I was seeing them clearly in my head, with all of the attendant feelings, and just needed to pinpoint the language to convey it.

I also think that my training as a poet helps with this. I write “imagistically,” if that’s a word.

The character of Ring, the dog, serves as a pivotal point in the novel. What does Ring symbolize in the journey of the protagonist and the larger narrative?
First, I want to take a little bit of issue with the idea that Ring is there as a symbol. For me, Ring is a fully-fledged character, with his own narrative arc and relationships.

That said, well, OK, Ring does also symbolize something. I actually thought my choice of name for him would make it clear, but so far only one reader has told me they figured that out. In group meditations, the person leading the meditation will often ring a small bell to start and finish the meditation practice, and sometimes during the practice. Part of the point of the bell is to bring us to our senses and the present moment, to remind us of why we are here, and to focus on our breath or whatever other point of focus we’re utilizing for our mind. I think Ring serves that purpose for Lee, bringing Lee back to the present moment and the realization of being a living being in the world, and the decisions and commitments that come with that realization.

You’ve received praise for the authenticity of the spiritual traditions explored in the novel. How did you ensure these depictions were both respectful and accurate?
I don’t think I actually explored real spiritual traditions in “Ring.” It’s true that there is meditation and pranayama, which originated with the Vedas in ancient India, but I depicted those practices similarly to the way I was taught them in yoga studios and meditation classes, without much of their very important (and very real) spiritual and philosophical underpinnings. While yoga and meditation are common practices in the U.S. and Canada and much of the rest of the world at this point, they are often taught in a distinctly non-religious manner in these places. I understand that they originated elsewhere and hope I was respectful about that.

It's also true, I guess, that a lot of the instruction and contemplation at the sanctuary are based in part on my understanding of certain Buddhist principles. My spouse is Buddhist and I’ve studied Buddhism in small ways throughout my adult life. However, while there may be Buddhist echoes throughout the book, the spiritual teachings of the sanctuary and its particular combination of practices and principles are made up. I invented a religion for the story. A religion that draws from other (real) religions, but that is nonetheless made up. I would not want the dialogue in the book to be mistaken for actual Buddhist teachings.

While there is nothing at the sanctuary that is Jewish in practice (except maybe Samu’s inexplicable donning of something akin to a yarmulke), there is some discussion of Jewish grief rituals. I did not need to research that because I’m Jewish and my own family has practiced those rituals. And they’re rituals I find very helpful for processing and surviving grief, and that I wish were not falling by the wayside for non-religious Jews like myself.

I think it’s an open question whether the characters in “Ring,” or I as their writer, engaged in any amount of appropriation regarding the practices and ideas that are loosely derived from the Vedas and Buddhism. If so, I hope it’s minimal and done in a loving and respectful manner. I certainly intended it to be loving and respectful. I depicted characters who put pieces of different traditions together with their own ideas in order to try to find a way to navigate life and death. And I guess that reflects my own approach to spirituality, and to survival, in our complicated world. Which is not to say that I agree with everything said and done at the imagined sanctuary.

Grief is a central theme of your novel. In writing about such a sensitive topic, what did you hope to convey to readers who might be dealing with their own grief?
Most complicated griefs are not understood by anyone, not by the people in the mourner’s life and often not by the mourner themself. It’s my hope that Ring can serve as company for people experiencing this phenomenon, so that they know they’re not alone and that other people have asked the same questions they’re asking and struggled with the same decisions. And I hope that the book can convey some small flicker of light and hope, and the sense that in this world where everything is impermanent—and where losses resulting from such impermanence can be gut- wrenching—our emotional and psychological states are also impermanent. That to some extent survival is about learning to live in a state of uncertainty and incompletion. That daily life can feel very difficult to get through and yet still have meaning. And that living, and remembering, and taking action in our loved one’s name is how we serve them and maintain the relationship.

The setting of a remote sanctuary is almost a character in itself within the novel. How did you go about creating such a compelling and atmospheric location?
It was important to me that the tone and the feel of the story be cold, quiet, and vast, yet also very confined in a way. Because that is what grief feels like. So, I wanted a very defined and limited indoor space where people spent most of their time, contrasted with a feeling of frozen vastness outside that space.

I had the image of a subarctic setting in my mind for this story. I’ve spent a little bit of time in subarctic terrain, though not in the exact location where this story is told. I also had the sense that Lee would start out from the Midwest U.S.. I then looked at a map and figured out where the most remote northern place was that someone from the Midwest U.S. could reasonably get to in real life, where there is an airport and also a way to get out to vast expanses of snowy land where someplace like the sanctuary could be hidden. I then researched that place—the ecosystems, the views, how the land is described by people who live there.

In terms of the sanctuary itself, I just saw it in my mind as I wrote it. I knew it needed to feel simple. Spare. Pared down to the necessities. Because that is also what living through grief can feel like.

"Ring" has been described as a guide for those walking the line between despair and hope. How do you view the role of literature in providing solace or guidance?
Stories have the power to affect us on very deep emotional level. And, I think that sometimes it’s easier to process our own pain and challenges when we allow ourselves to be absorbed in, and affected by, someone else’s.

When I first experienced complicated grief, I was desperate to read anything that made sense of what I was going through and gave me any sense of what to do about it. I tried to read psychology books and self-help books, and found no solace. They were cold, dry, impersonal, and prescriptive in a way that felt unhelpful.

What really helped me was finding two works of literature that approached this state of being in a more emotional, personal, and nonprescriptive manner. One was C.S. Lewis’ memoir, A Grief Observed. The other was the novella Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto. Reading those books felt like meeting someone who understand exactly what I felt, and who struggled with it in messy and sometimes unresolved ways but still managed to go on. It felt like someone was holding out their hand to me and walking with me on what was otherwise a very lonely path.

You’ve incorporated mindfulness practices and meditation into the narrative. How do these elements contribute to the overall message of the novel?
The overall message of the novel is, in some ways, that life goes on for the living. Even when it’s unpleasant. And that there’s a reason for this, or maybe many reasons. But to actually go on living, we need to experience the world around us, and our own bodies, which can be very difficult to do while in a traumatized emotional state. Mindfulness practices bring our attention back to the physical world and, to some extent, out of the endless ruminations we tend to engage in while depressed, anxious, or grieving. Becoming aware of your breath, and your feet on the floor, and the sounds in the room, and what your body is actually feeling, can short-circuit emotional states that otherwise feel permanent and unbearable.

These practices also remind us that we’re physical beings, and our emotions are stored in, and affect, our bodies. We can’t really address our emotional state without addressing our bodies and figuring out where in our bodies we’re holding on to trauma. Some of the most profound releases I’ve ever felt from both depression and anxiety have been through physical experiences like yoga, running, and EFT/tapping.

That said, I am very bad at following my own prescriptions. I go years sometimes without meditating or doing yoga. Writing Ring was to some extent a meditation for myself about meditation and mindfulness, a way of telling myself, over and over, to remember that this is what helps when nothing else seems to.

The novel tackles the complex issue of suicide with compassion and depth. What challenges did you face in addressing this topic, and what message do you hope to impart?
The challenges, of course, have to do with worrying about the effects on the reader. People feel suicidal sometimes. Sometimes people act on it. I did not want to write anything that could make someone feel more likely to act on it.

On the other hand, the reticence around the subject, and people’s fear of talking about it, also doesn’t help. People who have these feelings will not stop having them simply because you avoid the subject. There is a sense of alienation inherent to suicidal ideation. Entering into a person’s line of vision, and sitting with them in that space, is, I think, more helpful. It’s hard to feel a part of the world and yet keep falling deeper into that kind of ideation, unless there is a great deal of physical distress or threat of physical distress.

There was a Robin Williams movie many years ago about the afterlife. It wasn’t a fantastic movie. But there is one part I will always remember, in which his character goes into a dark distant place to find his wife who had taken her own life. She’s so stuck inside her own ruminations that she can’t hear or see him. So, he decides to just stay in that place with her until he starts to lose his own mind. And that is when she suddenly regains awareness and is able to emerge. When she feels him there with her. Reaching in from the outside with logic and pleas didn’t work. He had to be willing to acknowledge what she was actually feeling, and to brave sitting in that space.

Part of what I wanted to do with this book was sit down in that space with the reader. If it’s a reader who has never experienced suicidal ideation, maybe it will be an education and will allow them to understand and better support people who do.

If it’s a reader who has experienced it, or is even still experiencing it, I hope that spending time with a character who is willing to inhabit that space will provide some measure of relief and connection, some small step towards reemergence.

In terms of a message, I guess I hope to impart that living doesn’t necessarily mean getting over difficult things. It doesn’t necessarily mean ever getting to the point of feeling whole again. There are ways to manage grief and despair even as they stay with you, and there are reasons to do so. And the keys to understanding all of this, and to get by on a day-to-day basis, are to be present to the physical world and to focus on helping someone else.

Your journey from law to fiction is fascinating. How do you think your background in law has influenced your storytelling, especially in dealing with themes of justice and morality?
I think that my background in law has, to some extent, made me a sparer storyteller. Legal writing is supposed to be concise. It was hard for me to learn to write that way, and every fiber of my being rebelled against it in the beginning. But I got used to doing it. And it taught me to really hone in on the most important details of any story, the details that are relevant to the overall picture, the point I’m trying to make. It also taught me how to be less wordy!

Probably no one but a lawyer would realize this, but there is a real-life legal parallel to the dilemma regarding the character of Ring. There are people who instruct in their wills that, on their death, their animals should be “euthanized.” In New Jersey, where I live, there’s been a bill pending for years that would make such clauses unenforceable. But the bill never even reaches a vote, much less passes, because there are forces that lobby against it, arguing that people should have the right to do this, that there might be reasons for doing so.

Most people are shocked to hear anyone would do this to their animal, and that anyone would fight such a bill, but it’s real. I run a cat rescue and we have a foster cat who was surrendered to us by a woman’s daughter after the woman died, despite the woman having instructed in her will that her daughter should get the cat “euthanized” (which I put in quotes because the cat was not sick). The daughter thankfully couldn’t get herself to do it.

I wanted to consider this situation outside the legal context of wills and decedents, and address the moral question in a more direct way. But the fact that I wanted to address it at all probably comes in part from having been a lawyer, and having recently practiced animal law at the time I wrote the book.

The reception of "Ring" has been overwhelmingly positive, with mentions of its emotional impact and compelling storytelling. How has the response from readers and critics shaped your view of your own work?
I was worried that readers would find the book depressing and hard to get through. I was really surprised when people instead called it a page-turner and said they came away from it feeling hopeful and healed. I’m happy to hear these things, and it’s made me think of the book as less of a heavy object and more of the “balm” that Porochista Khakpour called it in her endorsement.

Can you discuss any challenges you faced in transitioning from poetry and law to writing a full-length novel?
I found myself completely unable to write a normally structured novel with traditional chapters. I definitely think this came from being a poet. I think part of why it took me so long to write this story down is that I couldn’t really figure out how to do it in a “normal” way, with simple linearity, in-depth backstory, and complicated plot points.

When I finally jettisoned the idea that I had to write it in that way, and approached it structurally more like a poem, it flowed. It’s why it’s written in vignettes and why most of the vignettes center an emotion or sensation rather than a series of actions.

With "Ring" delving into spirituality and the human connection to animals, can you share any personal beliefs or experiences that influenced these aspects of the story?
I definitely have a personal belief in, and a lot of personal experience with, the power of human-animal connections. Throughout my life, a lot of my most profound relationships have been with animals. I’ve been greatly comforted and even, I would say, healed by them. My soul mate throughout my childhood and early adulthood was a horse named Shire, and I’m not sure I’ve had as close a connection with anyone since. I’ve always lived with animals, and there is a cat purring next to me as I answer this question. My mother says that when she was pregnant with me, her cat Rhubarb would lay on her belly and purr. Perhaps that’s why purring is such a soothing sound for me.

In terms of the spirituality in “Ring,” I think it emanates from the connections people have to the land, the sky, and the humans and animals around them. And to being present with their bodies and with the natural world around them. And I guess this is the context in which I myself feel spiritual.

“Ring” also discusses ritual to some extent—the Jewish death rituals practiced after Lee’s daughter died, and the made-up rituals at the sanctuary. While I am not enamored with many aspects of organized religion, I do think that rituals are very important and can help us hold onto our sanity, especially in the wake of traumatic events. I find the Jewish mourning rituals that I grew up with to be profoundly helpful in the aftermath of death. I think that a lot of the alienation and disorientation in contemporary U.S. society is due to the falling away of these kinds of community rituals. When we don’t know what to do, sometimes having tried and true practices to fall back on, in the presence of community, makes all the difference.

The sanctuary’s Seven Pillars play a crucial role in the narrative. Can you explain the significance of these pillars and how they came to be part of the story?
I’ll tell you a secret: I don’t know what all of the pillars are! I came up with a few of them that are mentioned early on in the novel, but I never bothered to define them all.

I don’t actually know where the idea for the pillars came from—either the physical pillars in the snow or the metaphorical pillars of the Society’s philosophy/religion. I think my first image of the story that entered my head decades ago was of a person walking in the snow with a dog toward a stone pillar. Why this particular image? I honestly don’t know. But figuring out what the pillar was for, and what it signified, helped me design a structure and setting for the story.

The pillars are important to the story in a number of ways. First, the explanation of the first few pillars allows some sense of the Sanctuary’s philosophy to be conveyed, as well as the instructions to Lee and the other residents as to what they need to do to find healing and peace. Second, they are a concrete manifestation of the connections between mind and body, theory and the physical world. Because they stand for both principles and physical columns in the snow. Part of the point of “Ring” is that nothing exists only in our minds or emotions. Everything is physical; everything is part of the world. The pillars are in our mind and are sticking out of the ground. Our emotions are in our mind and in every cell and organ of our bodies.

Finally, what’s next for you as an author? Are there themes or stories you’re eager to explore in your future work?
Believe it or not, my next book is funny! It’s a collection of humorous stories about my life among animals, from my neurologically impaired squirrel to my physically disabled sheep to the six cats with feline leukemia I accidentally adopted. I’m about three-fourths of the way through writing it, though I’ve taken a break from it for the last few months.

I also have two other books waiting to be written. One is a novel about the Shakers, which I already have planned out and have done research for but keep putting off to write other things. Most people aren’t aware how truly radical the Shakers were. They were egalitarian in terms of both gender and race. They were communist with a small “c.” Their religious leader was a woman. They prohibited marriage, sex, and reproduction, and replenished their ranks by adopting orphans and raising them in the community. At the point of adulthood, they let the adoptees go out into the world and decide whether or not to remain a Shaker.

My story is about a young woman at this point in her life, deciding whether to remain a Shaker and have access to education, occupation, and leadership positions, or to live in the outside world and have the kind of family life afforded by marriage and childbearing. I want to explore the question of what we are willing to give up in order to fulfil our potential, and what that means in different contexts.

Also, after the demise of Roe v. Wade, I hope to explore the concept of women’s reproductive autonomy by considering the Shaker movement. The Shakers were started by a woman, Mother Anne, who suffered four still births and didn’t want to do that anymore. The Shakers became one of the only options for women who did not want to marry or bear children, and a very large percentage of every Shaker community at any given time were women of reproductive age. I think this is a story that needs to be told.

Finally, I have been working for the past couple of years with young Gazan writers, and since October I’ve been working to try to get them out of Gaza and into universities abroad so that they can finish their educations in the wake of every university in Gaza being destroyed. I keep being told that I need to write a book about this effort. Stay tuned!