©Sarah Moore
From perpetually damp clothes to Jägermeister at the bars, the details of Hell in Sign Here are . . . well . . . hellish. How did you come up with a vision of what your Hell would look like?
I have to say, designing my own version of Hell was So. Much. Fun. It all started when I was liv ing in Brooklyn and contemplating going to an event I didn’t really want to go to, and I was imagining the steps it would take to get there: walking through the slush of February in New York, shoving my way onto the L train (when ever it finally arrived), and then standing right up in the faces of everyone around me, the train starting and stopping and lurching into darkness for no known reason. And from the comfort of my couch, I thought to myself, “That sounds like Hell.” And then I thought, “What if that was Hell?” I mean, not just the privilegedtwentysomething-living-in-Williamsburg version of Hell, but actual torture-for-all-eternity Hell. But I didn’t do anything with the thought in the moment, just tucked it into the back of my brain until years later, when I found myself in that hotel room thinking the exact same thing. From there I did a fair amount of crowdsourcing, asking everyone I knew when the last time they thought “this is hell” was and why, which is how I got some of my favorite details, like the carpeted bathrooms and the puddles that are set on random depths. But the idea was: What would torture look like if you weren’t Hitler, or a sex trafficker? What would it look like
if you were just a low-grade asshole? Because I’m sure, at our worst, we’ve all wondered that.
Sign Here plays with the structure/ ideology of Hell—what books or research influenced you the most?
So not to be a major nerd, but my first and larg est influence was definitely Paradise Lost by John Milton. I took a course on Milton and the Bible at Sarah Lawrence, and reading Paradise Lost for the first time—and truly understanding it—was a complete game changer for me. As the only child of two hard-working writers, I’ve always been an avid, damn-near-ferocious reader of both fiction and poetry. But there is something about reading Milton (I’ve also no ticed a similar experience with Shakespeare) that feels like translating another language. And, like learning another language, it doesn’t click, and it doesn’t click, and it doesn’t click, until suddenly it does. I remember the exact moment that Paradise Lost clicked: I was sit ting at my desk in my dorm room in college my senior year, and I had about two hours to get in my paper for the semester even though I had been banging my head against the wall for days. But then, as I reread Satan’s speech in Book 2 for the millionth time, suddenly the lines started making perfect sense. I could hear the voice, the cadence, the rhythm of Milton’s Satan, and along with it, his struggles and in securities and fear. The angsty rebellion—and regret—of a wayward kid. It was a reality I could relate to, and while my book does not include a Satan character, Milton’s depiction of the ruler of Hell showed me the richness that can come from delving into the psyches of our most noto rious villains and exploring their more human, vulnerable sides.
Did the story surprise you with how dark it got? Or did you always intend for it to go there?
Absolutely, and I love this question! One of my favorite things about being a writer is that while writing is a solitary activity, there is still room to have fun, to be a prankster, even if it is only on yourself. An excellent example of this was one evening when, as I was getting ready to wrap up for the night, I decided to write one sentence for the next segment so I would have something to start off with the next day. But because I’m a little devious by nature (unsurprising, given the con text), I decided to play a game with myself. To
test myself a bit. So, completely out of nowhere and with zero context/idea of how I would pro ceed, I wrote the line: “Calamity Ganon, human name redacted, got her taste for blood the first time her father beat her brother to death in front of her.” And then I pushed back from my computer, threw my hands up and said, out loud, to no one but myself (and my dog), “Good luck figuring that out!” and shut my computer.
Because of that random, out-of-left-field line I threw myself, I was able to develop one of my favorite plotlines—and arguably the darkest—in the book. So yes, there are ways in which some of the darkness was a surprise. That being said, you don’t set out to write a book that takes place largely in Hell and expect it to be puppies and rainbows. I knew this book would go dark, and I wanted to take it there. But I went in with the intention of that darkness ultimately serv ing as a stark background for the power of light.
Any other fun anecdotes in the writing of this book that you’d like to share?
One of my favorite things about writing this book was my writing group that helped make it happen. For any aspiring writers: I could not recommend a writing group more. Mine is small but mighty, just three of us who really hung on: me and two other writers, James Golsan and Lori Kendall. It was because of our monthly meetings that I felt not just the inspiration but the need—as in I-have-an-assignment-due kind of need—to keep going with this book. When it was my turn to submit, I would dole out Peyote and Mickey and the rest of the crew in twenty-page segments, and they gave me the initial enthusiasm, feedback, and suggestions that made this story what it is. Through this, they’ve become two of my closest friends and most trusted readers, and I would be lost with out them. Yes, writing is a solitary activity. But it doesn’t have to be lonely.
social work from the University of Texas. As soon as I was licensed, I began working as a therapist for survivors of domestic and sexual violence at a local nonprofit. I loved this work. Of course, it was hard. Hard to hear children talk about fear and brutality with such intimate knowledge, hard to hold space with people who had seen and experienced the worst and try to not give in to the despair. The horror. But through it, I learned the only thing stronger than fear is hu manity’s greatest gift: resiliency.
After taking care of my father through his death, I decided I needed to take a step back from trauma and focus on writing. But I be came a social worker because I wanted to fight for good, and I felt like I was losing a huge part of my soul. I spoke to another social worker friend of mine, and she said, “Changing the world is a marathon. Just because you’re taking a break from running doesn’t mean there aren’t other roles that are just as important. You can cheer, train, pass water to the runners, spread the word and hand around flyers. But if you run yourself into the ground, you can’t do anything anymore.” So when I started writing this book, I did so with that marathon in mind.
Yes, it is a (hopefully!) funny book about Hell. But I want readers to also walk away with some understanding about the traumas we all face, and the interconnectivity that comes from that. There is hardship everywhere, and I know it can be easier to avert our gaze, to look away. But there is no room for resiliency, for the growth and progress born from turning fear into out rage into change, if we refuse to look. Gun vio lence is a reality in America. Violence against women and children is a reality in America. But the marathon is also a reality. It’s happening, right now, countless people running and teach ing and offering all types of support.
Ultimately, I would love readers to take away not only the satire, the humor, and the flexibility that comes with fiction, but both the reality of the Hell we see every day and the reality of our power to stop it.
Ultimately, this book is me, handing you a flyer.
What do you want readers to take away from this book?
Prior to writing this novel, I spent my career working with survivors of violence. In 2013 I moved to Austin to pursue higher education in the field, and in 2015 I received my masters in
