An Interview with Eva Silverfine

From living above her parents’ hardware store in Brooklyn to living down a gravel road in Central Texas, Eva Silverfine has meandered through urban to rural landscapes. A biologist by training, she works as a freelance copyeditor for academic presses. Her short fiction has appeared in a variety of journals, and her novels, How to Bury Your Dog and Ephemeral Wings, were recently published by Black Rose Writing. Find her at evasilverfine.com.

Who/what made you want to write? Was there a particular person, or particular writers/works/art forms that influenced you?

Loving the intimate world of books as a child is what inspired me to write. I clearly remember walking through the public library as a child thinking about how much I loved the book I had just read and how I wanted to create my own stories someday. I am not sure what book inspired this thought, but one book I remember reading was Knee-Deep in Thunder, by Sheila Moon. In the story, a girl shrinks down to the size of an insect and has a challenging adventure. Years later, not even thinking of that story, I wrote a book from the perspective of insects living in a stream—coincidence or influence?

What other professions have you worked in? What’s something about you that your readers wouldn’t know?

My formal education was in the biological sciences, and I spent several years working in a variety of labs, from testing water at a wastewater treatment plant to dissecting moths in an entomological research lab. Eventually I retooled to merge my interests, and I work as a freelance copy editor for academic presses, primarily on books in the natural sciences. In contrast to this skillset and probably a surprise to those who know me, as a child I loved to perform—dance, music, theater—and thought the performing arts were my future.

Tell us the story of your book’s title. Was it easy to find, or did it take forever?

The original working title of my novel, which started as a character portrait, was “The Kitty and Miss Lizzy.” I don’t recall if there were interim titles before I locked into “How to Bury Your Dog.” I realize this title is problematic—while it grabs attention, it also deters some potential readers from even reading the back-cover synopsis. Admittedly, I am somewhat wedded to the title as it is a metaphor—perhaps a bit too obscure—for the main character, who has buried her sadness but must face it to move on.

What is one thing you hope readers take away from reading your book? How do you envision your perfect reader?

Despite the title, the novel is an uplifting story of growth and transformation. The novel speaks to the sustaining and healing power found in our connection to the natural world as well as to one another. I imagine my perfect reader may already have a predilection toward being connected to nature but also is someone who likes character-driven novels. There are a few episodes in the novel that are somewhat surreal and left to the reader to define, so readers who enjoy such ambiguity may be predisposed to the novel.

What was the most rewarding/meaningful part of publishing your book?

Being able to share the story and, for the most part, reading/hearing positive reviews of it. For me, writing is about communication, so the sense of successfully sharing my thoughts, making that connection, is very rewarding.

What new writing projects are you currently working on? Or, other projects that are not writing?

My current project is my most ambitious to date and takes me into the realm of speculative fiction. The story came about upon reflecting on an entomological research project I worked on years ago. Many insects have very complicated reproductive systems, and in a conversation on this topic (yes, I have such conversations) I thought, what if people had a similar reproductive system? What kind of social structure might grow out of this basic biological difference? So far there are secrets, illicit relationships, and sociopolitical tension. Stay tuned!

Are you a writer, too? Submit your manuscript to Atmosphere Press.