Ruth Ennis talks to Kel Menton about vulnerability, mental health, and celebrating the small wins
What was your favourite scene to write in A Fix of Light?
It’s tricky to talk about the scenes I enjoyed writing the most without spoiling things! I’ll try to keep it suitably vague to be enticing to those who have not yet read A Fix of Light while (hopefully) making sense to those who have.
I love writing arguments, though I am conflict averse myself. There is something about that moment when the tension explodes – when it’s impossible to keep your emotions in check and you end up being more truthful than you’d intended. That is really satisfying to me. It’s cathartic to write those scenes as well as read them.
What draws you to writing pivotal scenes in nature?
I think humans forget that we are also nature, and I think we forget that laws of nature apply to us. We can learn a lot from the ‘natural’ world (is there an unnatural world?). Life and death and push and pull are all cyclical; beginnings and endings are arbitrary, everything is interconnected. Even when sadness feels like cement in my limbs, the ocean will let me float on its surface. I can yell and yell and yell my frustrations and the sky can hold them all. I will never run out of stars to wish upon because there are so many.
Even when sadness feels like cement in my limbs, the ocean will let me float on its surface
I suppose, then, when an emotionally important scene is set in a forest or by the sea, I have the sense that the landscape is supporting the characters through it, or offering its wisdom. It’s a bit of an esoteric thing and hard to put into words!
What role does vulnerability play in A Fix of Light?
I think discussing or depicting vulnerability is extremely important. Not to sound like a curmudgeon, but online culture has (generally speaking) become obsessed with irony. Like, ‘No one can ever get to me, because I don’t care about anything, and I only post scathing quips or snarky replies.’ And sure, some of it is funny, and there’s absolutely room for irony and snark sometimes. But it’s hard to be sincere. It’s ‘cringe’ or ’embarrassing’ to be wholehearted. That sucks!
if you never open yourself up, there is always this feeling of not being known by others
Being genuine with others is scary – telling people your true thoughts and feelings opens you up to rejection, and that is painful. But if you never open yourself up, there is always this feeling of not being known by others, and that’s pretty scary too. Hanan and Pax are trying to balance this potential pain versus potential reward. I think maybe our hearts will resonate with each other; I’ll treat yours gently if you do the same with mine? They’ve got to share bit by bit, piece by piece, because they’re sort of learning how to be vulnerable in the first place, too.
Taking turns, swapping stories or secrets, proves to each other that they are equally vulnerable in this exchange, and so there isn’t a power imbalance. That’s also why, if it’s revealed that someone was lying, even by omission, it’s so painful – they’ve broken the social contract, they weren’t as vulnerable as they’d said, they were fooling me into revealing more.
How do you balance exploring themes of mental health while writing for a young adult audience?
I rarely saw my experiences reflected in the books I read growing up; most protagonists weren’t autistic or queer or trans or had a mental illness. It’s cliché, but writing the book that you want to see on the shelves is still the best advice I’ve gotten. I decided pretty young that I was going to address all the ugly aspects of teenagedom that adults seemed to be ignoring or glossing over – but there is a stark difference between misery tourism and being truthful to an experience.
I rarely saw my experiences reflected in the books I read growing up; most protagonists weren’t autistic or queer or trans or had a mental illness
More importantly, if A Fix of Light was going to make it into the hands of my intended readers (young adults, teenagers) then I had a responsibility to be mindful of their wellbeing, and also not to crush their hope. It was a tricky balance, but I was very lucky that my editor and the wizards at Little Island were there to help guide me. Often, I had to ask myself, ‘Why am I saying this?’ and ‘Why am I saying it this way?’ The most important aspect of A Fix of Light, for me, was its message of hope, so anything that threatened to overshadow it had to be cut.
Pax is a transgender boy who later realises he is a shapeshifter. How did you approach the motif of transference in Pax, and why does it manifest through magic?
I love this question! I am going to begin my answer with this quote: ‘God blessed me by making me transsexual for the same reason God made wheat but not bread and fruit but not wine, so that humanity might share in the act of creation.’ (Daniel Mallory Ortberg, Something That May Shock and Discredit You). I can’t speak for all trans people, but to me, to be trans is to take part in a transformation – be that physical, emotional, psychological, spiritual – to shift and change and bloom.
to me, to be trans is to take part in a transformation – be that physical, emotional, psychological, spiritual – to shift and change and bloom
Many think that by virtue of being trans, I am a monster, but I’m happy to take the label, frankly. J.J. Cohen’s Monster Culture states that, among other things, the monster ‘stands at the Threshold of Becoming,’ is the ‘Harbinger of Category Crisis,’ and ‘Dwells at the Gates of Difference.’ Pax is a bit of a monster. He’s inhuman, and also superhuman, more human than human. Transformation is scary, and painful, but also beautiful and inevitable. I’ve used magic as a metaphor to flesh out my whole philosophy on monstrousness and the Other and the abject and my queerness. In fairness to him, Pax has taken it all on the chin. I think magic is a great tool in a storyteller’s kit. Direct, literal language often falls short for me, when I’m trying to translate my inner world (emotions, or my own perception of my gender, or my sensory experience as an autistic person). Magic, in a funny way, lets me make the intangible…tangible.
What has your experience been as a debut writer, and do you have any advice?
I knew it would be an emotional rollercoaster, but there’s only so much you can do to prepare yourself to debut! It all still feels surreal, unreal. I wonder sometimes if I have made the whole thing up, even when I’m staring at my book on a shelf. It’s strange that other people know who Hanan and Pax are, now. The book community in Ireland is absolutely sound, so I have felt their support from the day it was announced that Little Island were publishing A Fix of Light, which is particularly significant to me as a trans author writing books with queer and trans characters.
My advice would be to celebrate each and every win, no matter how small they may seem
My advice would be to celebrate each and every win, no matter how small they may seem. It doesn’t have to be a big blow-out party – you can commemorate signing your first book by treating yourself to your favourite takeaway or bottle of wine or that special edition of your favourite book that you’ve been eyeing forever.
Celebrating yourself and your achievements can feel a bit uncomfortable if you’re not used to it (I’m still adjusting!) but without pausing to smell the roses, you never get to appreciate the garden you’ve spent so much time cultivating. Life is the journey, and all that jazz. There will always be another goal post to shoot for, another dream to actualise, another story to write. Celebrate how far you’ve come before you dive straight into the next thing!
