Last year I started writing a new novel that began as a series of one-sided conversations. I gave up around page ninety because, as you can imagine, it’s an incredibly challenging structure to pull off. You’re not giving the reader what the listening character says, but the reader still needs to get that information somehow. And the character speaking needs to be strong and dynamic enough to carry an entire novel through dialogue alone—ideally, also showing the disconnect between what they’re saying and what they’re actually thinking. Not impossible, but extraordinarily difficult and tricky.
And yet Melissa Mogollon pulls off this structure in her debut novel, Oye. She accomplishes what felt to me unfeasible, and does so beautifully. Oye is a series of one-sided conversations between high school student Luciana and her older sister Mari. Luciana, the baby of her Colombian American family, is trying to get her beloved grandmother, Abue, to evacuate before a hurricane hits. Not only that, Abue receives a medical diagnosis she’d prefer to ignore, all while Mari is off at college—not returning home to help—which Luciana has a lot to say about. Oye is both a coming-of-age story and an intergenerational saga, both funny and full of drama. It marks Melissa Mogollon as a gifted storyteller who can perform alchemy within the most limiting novel structure I can imagine.
It was a delight to discuss Oye with Melissa Mogollon, which we did over a few weeks via Google Docs.
Rachel León
I thought we could start by talking about the title because it’s so perfect—it captures the heart of the novel, but also signals to the reader what they need to do: listen. At what point in the writing process did you choose Oye as the title?
Melissa Mogollon
I LOVE that you want to start with the title! Thank you! And you nailed it. To me, “Oye” is a title that functions as a sound, expression, and instruction. It’s fun but also a command, and that duality of heaviness within joy is something that I felt was so inherent to the experience of the family in the book. And it was actually always the title! Oye, the book, began as a short story that I wrote in my MFA after having spent a few months taking care of my grandmother in real life. I wrote it because I wanted my classmates to fall in love with her–and because I had always wanted a sister! So I set out to create a younger version of me, who was handed the same impossible caretaking task, but I gave her an older sister she could call to help her process things. However, what ended up happening instead was that this fascinating little sister emerged (the protagonist, Luciana) who *I* ended up falling in love with because she was saying and doing so many things that I never would have as an eighteen-year-old. And I admired that in her. Coincidentally, this week I saw this Louise Erdrich quote on the @ParisReview Instagram account that says, “By writing I can live in ways that I could not survive,” and it really struck me because that is completely true. For me. With this book. Through Luciana, I got to act in ways that I could never have dreamed of growing up. And I got to give that version of my grandma an alternative ending. “Oye,” the short story, went on to become the first three chapters of the book, and because Luciana was calling her older sister, Mari, I thought it would be cool to title it “Oye” since it’s a commonly used phrase to get someone’s attention on the coast of Colombia, where I was born. And both Luciana and her grandmother certainly know how to get someone’s attention!
Rachel León
Haha, yes, they do! I love what you just said: “that duality of heaviness within joy.” That’s a great description of the novel’s emotional texture. And I love that the two coexist in Oye. Did you ever have to push either forward or back? It seems so organic, even effortless, but I’m curious if you had to calibrate in revision to strike that beautiful balance here.
Melissa Mogollon
No one has ever asked me this! YES. For the overall book, I definitely had to actively work at making sure it wasn’t just all “too sad” or just a bunch of jokes, and the key was mastering Luciana’s voice. When it came to her, I wrote first through my instinct, which was to make Luciana as sarcastic, dry, and deflective as possible. Then I identified the moments where, in order to be human, she’d likely have to have some sort of emotional response, and I treated those almost like emotional silos. I dove in and wrote as if they were standalone portions, and put down the most unrestrained, melodramatic, cliche, and/or traumatic things that a high schooler would say. And then I went back and refined those moments, tuning them toward the overall narrative and character arcs. It was really important to me that Luciana’s immense and deep love for her grandmother came through, despite most of her dialogue being coded in humor. Which was hard…because I had to really think about when/where she’d likely reveal or divulge more than normal to her sister, and why! Though, I did find that with Luciana and Abue–less was more. The most impactful moments, for me, were those that left space open for feeling and interpretation, rather than necessarily invoking more words (if that makes sense). But then on the other hand, I also had to make sure that Luciana’s voice still came through when covering a lot of the family history and flashback, so that the material remained familiar and compelling to the reader, despite traveling back multiple decades and meeting new characters! In a strange way, Luciana’s voice became almost like a safety blanket for me. Once I got it down–it made me feel like I could tackle any event, obstacle, or theme in the novel and weave it into the book seamlessly…As long as I could relay it in her voice. Which is hilarious because if she were real, she’d never believe that her voice helped me feel fearless! But it so did. It made striking the emotional balance of the heavier and more complicated sections a little bit easier and more intuitive.
Rachel León
I can see that, her voice is so strong! And from there I come to the question I’m sure everyone is asking—how did you decide on the structure of the novel? The limitations of a series of one-sided conversations seems so tricky to pull off. (But you did!) Did you ever write drafts where you threw out this structure and experimented with something more traditional? If so, what pulled you back?
Melissa Mogollon
Totally. I wrote the first 100 pages of this book in about 3 different ways. The one-sided conversation was the first and original format because I was enamored with the idea of a young girl talking the entire time. And I wanted to know what having a sister felt like! But I realized quickly that it was probably going to be impossible to build any sort of world for readers through just her words. And I had also received the very thoughtful feedback early on from professors and thesis advisors that I was likely going to run into more constraints than opportunities with the format. And I agreed with them. Because they’re brilliant and at 24, I believed anything they said. So I took Luciana off the phone, turned her head, wrote in 1st person, 2nd person, 3rd person, put Mari on the phone, had Mari off the phone, and even had Abue and her mother talking at one point too…But after trying everything, it felt like the only way to authentically capture Luciana’s rage, humor, and heart was by just letting her speak. I remember thinking, “No one is doing it like her! Nothing else is hitting!” Especially since Luciana’s interiority is actually a lot less scathing than what ends up coming out of her mouth. And I really wanted to capture that pained and complex deflection, but also her incredible humor and joy. So I returned to the original one-way phone call format after some time and tried again. After that, it just became a fun challenge and genuine craft exploration for me…Could I effectively world build and create a full narrative, in a way that was compelling and meaningful, through what someone would organically say to their sister? As I moved along, chapter by chapter, I’d say “Okay, check. But will this next one work too?” Since a lot of the time I was just waiting for the limit to appear. Or for the plot point that finally didn’t work. But the longer that didn’t happen, the more committed I became to seeing it through. I remember feeling very open to failure. But also to the possibility that it just might work.
Rachel León
I love that. It really speaks to the idea that no draft is wasted. Now I can’t help but think it’s precisely because you went through all those experimental drafts that you got it so right, and the restrictive structure actually works. Because one of the things I marveled at was how it’s clear what Mari is saying even though it’s not directly stated, and also how sometimes I felt the disconnect between what Luciana says and what’s going on inside her—and yet all that was on the page was her dialogue. So brilliant. Do you mind sharing how long you worked on this novel? From that first short story to selling Oye?
Melissa Mogollon
That is such a lovely way to look at it, thank you! I like thinking that the restrictions of the form pushed me in ways that helped me refine the book. And I’m so happy that you felt the disconnect between what Luciana says vs. what goes on in her head! I worked really hard on that! Thank you, Rachel…I wrote “Oye,” the short story, at the end of 2017 for my workshop class during my MFA. I then worked on it the following semester as my final thesis before graduating in spring of 2018. I didn’t look at it again until August 2019, when I had switched jobs to find more time to write. Oye, the novel, then started to take shape as I wrote about every day until March 2020, when the pandemic started. Obviously, that spring, everything changed, and I spent those months and summer just trying to get our students to the finish line. When August came, our school returned to teaching in-person during the height of the pandemic so there was no time for anything. To say it was stressful is an understatement. I didn’t write again that year until we paused for winter break. And then I polished Oye up on our spring break and finished it in the summer. Late August 2021. I sent that final version to my agent, and after a few rounds of edits with her, we were on submission by November and sold in December. After that, I started the intense, precise editing and revision process with my editor at the publishing house from January/February 2022 to January/February 2023. And if you put all those chunks and bursts of time together I’d say it took me a little over 2 years total (hope I’m doing that math right). It was just spread out over the course of 5. You don’t know how excited I am to work on something new.
Rachel León
You don’t know how excited I am to hear you’re working on something new. But I won’t ask about that! I’d like to steer the conversation over to the novel’s themes. One thing the novel looks at is duty to oneself vs. one’s family. If you don’t mind a tiny comparison, it’s something another 2024 debut I recently read looks at (A Good Happy Girl by Marissa Higgins), though the two novels couldn’t be more different and the family dynamics can’t be compared. But both ask the question: what is our duty to our family? We’ve got Mari who is making decisions based on what’s best for her, and Luciana who is focusing on what’s best for her family—not just about being present, but Luciana also considers Abue when she’s thinking about coming out. I really admire how Oye resists answering that question or taking a moral stance, while also giving the reader a lot to chew on. Was that important to you?
Melissa Mogollon
I was already so pumped to read Marissa’s book and now I absolutely can’t wait. Thank you for connecting the themes! Love that she’s a fellow 2024 debut…This question of “what is our duty to our family” is definitely one that I felt carried the book. And whenever I felt tempted to prescribe too much there, I recalibrated by honestly thinking about what Luciana was capable of. As the events unfolded, it was clear that Luciana wouldn’t be able to fully answer that question for herself by the end of the book. Instead, her triumph became arriving to a place where she could finally start the exploration of that question. So I did resist giving Oye a stance, in trying to stay true to Luciana’s experience. It was important that I relayed a real first-gen immigrant life…which is (most of the time) that of existing in this strange limbo where unfortunately YOU will have to decide for yourself what is one’s duty to their family vs. their own life. No one is going to tell you. And everyone is probably going to critique you either way! It’s just about what you’re willing to live with. And I think for Luciana, and Abue, Mari, Elena, etc. this agency of choice was both the best and worst part. Since we see it play out so differently for all the women.
Rachel León
For sure. Another theme of the novel ties back into my first question: storytelling and listening to stories. I think contemporary American culture doesn’t value stories like other cultures and times do/ have. But I think they’re vital to us as people, and I’m guessing you agree. Want to wrap up by talking about the value of stories, storytelling, and listening to those who came before us?
Melissa Mogollon
This is so funny because, if you asked my mom, she would tell you that I don’t value listening to the stories of my family “enough.” I think like every good immigrant mother, she wishes I thought about my culture more. And included in that, is listening to her and the family members that came before me. But it’s true. There is this individualism in American culture that I feel is present in my upbringing that was not for the generations before me. And that presence does come up against the notion that generational storytelling is important. For a long time, it felt like storytelling was being used to cage, direct, and influence me. To celebrate and glamorize a specific way of thinking and living. So much so that I’ve probably overcorrected now and never want to tell anyone anything out of the fear of unintentionally influencing their opinion! Maybe this is why I didn’t let anyone else speak in Oye! Lol. Just kidding…I mean, in a way, writing a novel (a.k.a “creating a story”) is the very PUNK antithesis of listening to the stories of those that came before you. Maybe my mom is right. But what I do know is that through my immense privilege, stories have become art, instead of moral compasses or historical archives. Even though, obviously, I profoundly believe in storytelling and the value of stories. (Wouldn’t have written Oye if I didn’t!) Just maybe the purpose of them has shifted for me, and is different than what it was for my parents and grandparents. I am not looking for stories to be accurate historical narratives, though they certainly can be, but I look to them to fuel and energize me. To wake me up. Which, given the massive saturated apathy-churning media machine we operate under, is quite powerful. But that could also be my lack of dopamine from ADHD.
FICTION
Oye
By Melissa Mogollon
Hogarth Press
Published May 14, 2024
