Art & Agency

Rufi Thorpe is on a roll. Her 2014 debut novel, The Girls from Corona Del Mar, was longlisted for the International Dylan Thomas Prize and the Flaherty-Dunnan First Novel Prize. Her 2016 novel, Dear Fang, With Love, was followed in 2020 by The Knockout Queen, a finalist for the PEN/Faulkner Award. Her latest, Margo’s Got Money Troubles, seems poised to be a summer hit, popping up on must-read lists as well as generating additional buzz: an Apple TV series is in the works with Hollywood stars David E. Kelley, Nicole Kidman, and Elle and Dakota Fanning attached.

Thorpe’s new novel — about a young single mother, Margo, trying to make ends meet — is a thoroughly engaging story about the transformative power of love, art and humor. It’s also jam-packed with wacky characters and charming scenarios, including Margo’s former pro wrestling champion father, Jinx; collegial cosplay sex workers; and a gentle love affair conducted through writing. Canny references to cultural touchstones such as writers Neal Stephenson and William Gibson, viral social media and Lady and the Tramp keep the narrative fun, funny and flowing.

We caught up with Thorpe amid the flurry of prepublication commitments.

Who are you addressing in the book’s dedication, “For you”?

The reader. We’re all seeking human connection, and novels offer that. Growing up, books were where I found a place of feeling understood, feeling like there were other humans like me; loneliness was eased by communing with these minds of people that I had never met. That connection has been such a profoundly positive one in my own life, so this is my ode to those spaces.

You’re really good at eliciting human imperfections with empathy across an eclectic range of characters. Is that intentional?

Part of the reason I became a novelist is because I’m wildly in love with people. A subject I come back to over and over again is the impossibility of judgment: What do you do when people do bad things, especially people that you love? I return to that, as well as recognizing the inadequacy or ineffectiveness of punishment as a response. I think it’s combined with a sensibility that life either strikes you as funny or tragic, and it strikes me as funny. And people, even in the ways that they’re flawed, strike me as beautiful. I’m interested in moral grayness, that people are not all bad or all good. As a writer, it interests me to try and get that right.

Why did you choose to switch between the first person and third person, sometimes talking directly to the reader?

I’ve always written first-person but wanted to be the kind of writer who wrote in third person — it just seemed so elegant. At the beginning of this project, I thought this was going to be the book where I finally figured out third person. Then I realized, maybe this is the book where I investigate through the third and first person, and not one where I try for seamless illusion.

That technique almost becomes a narrative in itself.

I’m fascinated with narrative, and so much of this book is about creating your own narrative and persona. For her video work, Margo is creating her character, Hungry Ghost; Jinx has created his wrestling persona; and I, Rufi Thorpe, am putting on the Margo mask by writing in first person, engaging in that artifice creation. One of my ways into understanding character is impersonation. Both of my parents were actors and I did a lot of theater growing up; I did theater at Exeter.

Were you cast or crew at Exeter?

I worked in theater tech, building sets, and we were given so much freedom and autonomy. That’s where I learned to use power tools, which was a super-empowering skill. I always felt more comfortable with a circular saw than any boyfriend I ever had. I still apply that by refinishing furniture.

What are some other Exeter memories?

Exeter was really formative for me. I didn’t graduate — I wanted to do advanced English classes as an upper but wasn’t allowed, so I applied to college early. I did have wonderful English teachers, Nita Pettigrew and Rex McGuinn. They, and theater, were my happiest parts of Exeter. Also I took Russian with Inna Sysevich, the most wonderful, warm, kind, earthy woman I’ve ever known. I chose Russian out of sheer perversity. I liked the idea of learning another alphabet. Because of that, I’ve read a lot of Russian literature and that has had a lasting impact on me. Going to a place like Exeter, you’re thrust into adulthood: You’re navigating airports and layovers at 14, and it makes you feel like a citizen of the world. You’re managing a complex schedule, with lots of homework, and you have to figure all that out. That skill set me up to be successful in college, graduate school and the rest of my life.

Who are your influences as a writer?

A huge thing for me was realizing that I was a comedic writer. John Irving, another Exonian, was a big part of that for me, in terms of understanding the way that humor can act as a leavening agent to allow you to talk about really dark things in a way that’s tolerable. Also, the way he allows his obsessions to recur in different forms throughout his novels was a model. It can feel, after your first novel, like you have to invent a whole new self to write another book, like you’re supposed to do something completely different. But really, Irving is writing the same book over and over. He gave me permission to do that, to realize that it was okay for thematic obsessions to recur, as long as I was making them fresh and interesting and exploring new aspects or new combinations of those elements.

What do you think it takes to become a successful writer?

The most important thing is stubbornness. I sometimes call it “perversity of spirit.” The world is going to tell you, “No,” over and over. One of my M.F.A. professors told me I was never going to be a writer, that I didn’t have the talent. She offered to brainstorm other career options with me. I think she meant well, but I was devastated. I went home and cried and cried and cried. And then I thought: “Well, what am I going to do? Give up my life’s dream because this lady told me to? Obviously not!” I realized that I loved writing enough that I was willing to be the worst novelist. If there was even a hope that there was a place for me at that table, I would gladly be the worst one.

I read a lot of novels. You’re definitely not the worst one.

Well, the questions stopped being “Am I special? Am I talented? Am I brilliant?” That freed me artistically and psychologically. It takes time to get better at something; you’re never going to be good the first time you try. But novels are long — it takes a long time to get better at them. I think being stubborn and also not being super attached to being the best, that’s what ultimately will give you success.