‘The act of writing is, fundamentally, an act of seduction’: Author Susan Orlean on luring readers

Each week, Benjamin Law asks public figures to discuss the subjects we’re told to keep private by getting them to roll a die. The numbers they land on are the topics they’re given. This week, he talks to Susan Orlean. The American journalist and writer, 70, is the author of bestselling books including The Library Book and The Orchid Thief, which was made into the Academy Award-winning film Adaptation. Her latest book is the memoir Joyride.

Did you grow up poor, working-class, middle-class or well-off? Upper middle-class. My parents grew up during the Depression, though, so they were very conscious of money, waste and conspicuous consumption. And they were extremely unsettled by my desire to become a writer.

Did you feel the same worry? I was so determined to be a writer that I blocked out those very legitimate worries. It’s like a tightrope: if you look down and see how far you could fall, you might lose your nerve.

If you weren’t a writer, what would you be doing for money instead? When I’m writing about other people and their professions, I find myself thinking, “It would be so cool to do this; maybe this is what I really want to do!” There are times when I want to do something that isn’t as emotionally taxing as being a writer; there’s a lot of vulnerability in putting yourself out there. I also really love design and the visual world, and I’ve renovated a number of houses.

I would totally watch a reality show called Susan Orlean House-Flip. And I would absolutely do it in a second.

What are the rewards of writing – outside of money? It’s a twofold treasure. The first part is that I get to learn amazing things: it’s like being a student of anything that I become interested in. Right now, I’m learning about Soviet spies. The other treasure is telling those stories to people who might otherwise not know them. In a sense, it’s like being a travel guide, taking people to places they might not go. The pleasure for me is saying, “You know what? This is actually a really interesting place. You may not want to live here, you may not want to stay here, but you won’t regret seeing this world.”

If you could visit any previous version of yourself, when would you visit her … and what would you tell her about sex? I would absolutely jump back into that period in high school when my awareness of social and sexual behaviour was … a little lagging. I wish I had just been talked to more frankly and a little more honestly. When I got to college and it was unavoidable, it all hit me like a ton of bricks.

One of your most iconic pieces is the 1992 Esquire story “The American Boy at Age 10”, in which you showcase your capacity to lean into curiosity and compassion for young people. What do you envy about younger generations when it comes to sex? I envy the comfort that kids have in talking about sex in the nuances of gender. My son grew up with a bunch of friends who had gay parents – who experienced every variation of what makes a family – so he takes it all in his stride.

What do you not envy? The downside is the inevitable pressure to speed up and accelerate your life as a sexual person. Kids who are 12 can now access porn and I feel like you’re kind of young at that age to see that stuff.

What’s sexy about the work you do? The act of writing is, fundamentally, an act of seduction. You’re meeting strangers on the page, trying to keep their attention and seduce them into hearing your story. It’s me saying, “I’m going to make this really pleasurable for you.”

What’s unsexy? Well, I’m looking at my desk, which is filled with notes and books and scribbles. The physical labour of working on a piece is so grubby. You’re digging through books in the library, earmarking pages and scribbling notes.

Right? You become part detective, part ferret.[Nods] That’s the part that doesn’t look all that sexy, but it’s necessary.

You’ve written about having lung cancer. How are you now? I’m happy to say that I’m great. I had the tremendous good fortune of being diagnosed very early. I didn’t have to do chemo; I didn’t have to do radiation. Day-to-day, I actually feel incredibly healthy and well. That said, the surgery was really nasty, painful and primitive. They chop you open and chop out a chunk of lung …

God, it sounds like butchery. It was very much like I was in the Civil War in the 1860s. But now I feel really good: I’m super-active and don’t feel my age.

What age do you feel? We’re all constantly saying, “Wow, I don’t feel the age I just turned,” but 70 sounds really old to me. People die when they’re 70: you can’t pretend that you’re young in any way when you’re 70. But what age do I feel? Well, I had my son really late, so I have friends who have kids the same age as my kid who are 10 years younger than me. So I feel contemporary with them.

When was the last time you were naked that didn’t involve showering or sex? Skinny-dipping. I was at a party where there was this beautiful pond and I suddenly decided that it was the right moment to swim. I just dropped my clothes and jumped in … and it was noticed. I saw the host of the party recently and reintroduced myself. He said, “Oh, you went skinny-dipping!” And I thought, “Well, I guess you remember.” It was a little crazy, but it was a beautiful pond!

What superpower would you like? The ability to see myself as other people see me.

What superpower do you have? Reading a room: you can become a writer if you’re good at that.

Susan Orlean will appear at Brisbane Writers’ Festival on October 11, Sydney’s State Library of NSW on October 13 and Melbourne’s Wheeler Centre on October 15.

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