Kate Champlin, Rachael Zubal-Ruggieri, and Diane R. Wiener interviewed Madeleine Nakamura for Wordgathering.
WG (DRW): Madeleine, thank you for your willingness to collaborate with us here at Wordgathering! We look forward to this conversation with abundant enthusiasm and gratitude.
We know all too well how mainstream and even “indy” genre fiction tends to misrepresent, undermine, and/or villainize mental health themes and characters’ emotional variance. And we understand that your work, in contrast to the aforementioned all-too-frequent misrepresentations, features a protagonist who lives with what is often referred to in mainstream psychological parlance as “psychosis.” So, rather unlike the many “scary sidekicks” and other antagonists who appear in genre fiction as metaphors, threats, fear mongers, and villains (etc.), your work’s character is a hero—but not in a sentimental or romanticizing-of-mental-illness way. Can you please share a bit more with our readers about how and why you chose to resist and even “talk back to” negative tropes about mental illness, thereby reframing representation and writing against stigma in your fantasy novels, Cursebreakers and Angel Eye?
MN: Adrien Desfourneaux, the main character of my fantasy novels Cursebreakers and Angel Eye, has bipolar I disorder. The narrative distance in my writing is as close as I can make it, because I wanted the story to be filtered through his point of view as intimately as possible. Few novels allow a character with that kind of illness to speak to the reader for themselves, so I wanted to help oppose the standard.
Fiction—no matter what sort of fiction—rarely treats characters who have stigmatized mental illnesses like bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, etc. as having true personhood within the narrative. Other characters may be written with the intention of giving them interiority, agency, and a coherent identity; the audience is expected to be capable of emotionally understanding them in some way, even if it’s in a negative way. This is rarely afforded to a character who has an uncommon and severe mental illness. These characters are used more as devices in fiction.
People with these “movie monster” disorders are seen by an ableist society as having incomplete, degraded, lesser consciousnesses. They’re seen as completely alien. Who knows what they’re thinking? Who knows what they’ll do? Most fiction is written by people who uncritically accept that ableism, and these writers expect their audience to be the same. When an uninventive horror screenwriter conjures up yet another schizophrenic murderer running amok in the woods, this shared ableism is what he’s counting on. He knows the audience, at large, also believes in the inherent malice and unknowability of people who have schizophrenia. The intended effect—fear, disgust, uncertainty—relies on an implicit belief that everyone involved in making or interpreting the art isn’t crazy. Not like the movie monster is. It’s narrative shorthand: “This person is not like you and me.”
I’ve heard that idea made explicit more than once. When I was working to try to set up publicity for Cursebreakers before its release date, I ended up in a Zoom meeting with someone I was considering paying to help me. He told me he thought my choice of protagonist was inventive. “It’s just such a wild concept, trying to get into a head like that,” he said. “I had a bipolar roommate once. He was something else. He was an okay guy, but wow, I mean, these people are not like you and me. They’re really different.” He assumed, erasing information I’d given previously, that I must have written the novel out of a place of fascination. How could we be having a conversation as equals if I shared an illness with my protagonist? People like that don’t write novels.
Agents responded to my query letters for Cursebreakers in a similar way. A surprising number told me they were passing on the book because they took issue with how self-analytical the protagonist is. He speaks too coherently, and no one with bipolar disorder would have such a clear understanding of the life they’re living. It wasn’t convincing to them. It rang false. (I once received almost identical mystifying feedback on an autobiographical essay.)
Writing a mentally ill main character whose interiority and subjectivity are taken seriously is, ultimately, no different from writing any other character. I’ve been so affirmed and heartened by the responses the books have received from other disabled people who understand exactly what I was pushing against.
WG (RZR): Thank you for your thoughtful responses, Madeleine. Your character, Adrien Desfourneaux, is described on the Red Hen Press site as a “professor of magic and disgraced ex-physician” with “failing mental health” and “self-destructive tendencies.” In Red Hen’s Press Kit for Cursebreakers, a brief excerpt notes how Desfourneaux approaches a lectern to speak to an audience that doesn’t know what to expect (while Desfourneaux recognizes the audience likely has preconceived notions of what might happen next):
“I had been holding it together so admirably, I thought. A laudable performance, a skillful facade. No more. My daimon yawned and opened its eyes. My headache vanished.
It’s a wonderful feeling when the daimon cooperates with me. The sharpest joy in the cosmos, and a rage fit to kill.”
from Cursebreakers Press Kit, produced by Red Hen Press
My impression is that Adrien’s daimon is intended as a literary representation of bipolar disorder as both strength and complication—without either romanticizing mental illness or using problematic, well-worn tropes. Could you kindly tell us more about this fascinating character and, specifically, can you comment on your usage of “daimon” and “daimonic”? We look forward to your reflections!
MN: In the novels’ setting, the word “daimoniac” is used as a disparaging term similar to “lunatic,” and Desfourneaux sometimes refers to his bipolar disorder as “the daimon” in moments of emotional vulnerability. It’s used only in a self-aware, poetic sense. He knows that he has a mundane psychiatric illness, and the books themselves are straightforward about indicating that it isn’t magical or fantastical. The references to a daimon are just a bit of flair in Desfourneaux’s language; the word helps convey the feeling that his disorder controls him at times, almost as a separate entity. Like many terms that recur in the books, I chose the word for its connection to ancient Greek thought. A daimon is something separate from a demon, and the word can mean many different things—spirit, power, force of nature, a concept personified. Speaking metaphorically of the symptoms he experiences as “my daimon,” something inhabiting his body alongside him, helps the character reckon with his disorientation and loss of control in extreme moments.
WG (KC): I had no idea there was so much to unpack with that one word. Thanks for a really thoughtful answer, Madeleine. Many authors stoop to metaphor and fantasy equivalents. Some authors might even do that because they have such a hard time getting disabled (and/or mentally ill) characters past the publishers. I remember how much trouble you had with that. Of course, there are also fiction readers who’ll do any kind of mental gymnastics to avoid identifying with disabled people in the work they read. (I say disabled because I most remember a paraplegic character in Silko’s Almanac of the Dead. Some critic described him “a perfect metaphor for a man incapable of feeling.” Like, what?) It seems to me that Desfourneaux’s struggles with his moods and the stigma he faces from co-workers are exactly what people face in the real world. What are your thoughts on this interpretation?
MN: I think the use of metaphor and analogue in fiction to explore topics like disability, race, sexuality, and so on can be both effective and beautiful when it’s done correctly. However, a lot of fantasy involves bad metaphor and analogue, and in those cases, writers often end up unintentionally enforcing what they mean to critique. Everything hinges on the thoughtfulness of the implementation.
With Cursebreakers and Angel Eye, I thought it would be much more effective, in terms of what I was trying to convey, to write Desfourneaux as having bipolar disorder and not a magical or fantastical equivalent. What I didn’t expect was how some readers seemed to automatically assume otherwise, glossing over what was on the page—or even on the back of the book. There seemed to be a type of reader who instinctively wanted the disability to be abstracted into vague, aestheticized mush. It’s a more comfortable, familiar idea in fantasy: “Well, he’s got some kind of magical curse, and it’s a metaphor for something or another, not sure exactly what.”
I thought it was puzzling. I chalk some of it up to innocent skimming, since I don’t want to be the kind of author who blames every different interpretation of their work on a telling fatal flaw in the reader. Still, I think it does partially have something to do with how unused to direct portrayals of psychiatric disability fantasy fans can be.
WG (DRW): Thanks, Madeleine. As we get closer to wrapping up this wonderful interview, what if anything do you think might be meaningful to do, as a writer, to help fantasy readers and fans become more “used to” what you’ve described as “direct portrayals of psychiatric disability”? And what if anything might you encourage your fellow writers as well as the fans themselves to consider or “try” in this regard?
MN: I don’t think there’s any specific advice I’d feel qualified to give other writers on the subject of portraying disability. There’s only the general advice that applies to writing almost any character at all, which is to research your subject matter with due diligence. A good faith effort to be careful and curious will carry any attempt a long way.
This is such a valuable question, but it’s tricky for me to phrase my answer—I actually think the most practicable thing writers can do to help readers get used to portrayals of disability is to forget about themselves as a writer, assume responsibility as a reader, and seek out a variety of those stories themselves. Plenty of thoughtful, original books involving disability are being written all the time; there are so, so many wonderful authors and stories out there. The core problem isn’t a shortage of writers addressing the topic, it’s that their stories often struggle to gain traction because of ableism. Agents and large publishers see no marketability for fantasy they consider to be niche, so fewer readers see or select those books, and that cycle feeds itself.
We can’t control what anyone else writes, and as writers, we can’t control what any reader is interested in. Seeking out and supporting the work that’s already out there, on the other hand, is always achievable and only requires a willingness to dig a little bit deeper. If you’re a writer who already intends to say something about disability, then reading can only improve what you write.
WG (DW): Thank you for engaging with us. I am so appreciative of and for you and my co-editors!
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About Madeleine Nakamura
Madeleine Nakamura is an author and editor based in Los Angeles. Her debut adult queer fantasy novel, Cursebreakers, published by Red Hen Press, received starred reviews from Kirkus Reviews and Independent Book Review and won bronze in the Foreword INDIES. In her spare time, Madeleine enjoys tabletop RPGs, video games, cooking, and embroidery.
About Kate Champlin
Kate Champlin (she/her) is a late-deafened adult and a graduate of Ball State University (Indiana). She currently works as a writing tutor and as a contract worker for BK International Education Consultancy, a company whose aim is to normalize the success of underserved students.
About Diane R. Wiener
Diane R. Wiener (she/they) became Editor-in-Chief of Wordgathering in January 2020. The author of The Golem Verses (Nine Mile Press, 2018), Flashes & Specks (Finishing Line Press, 2021), and The Golem Returns (swallow::tale press, 2022), Diane’s poems also appear in Nine Mile Magazine, Wordgathering, Tammy, Queerly, The South Carolina Review, Welcome to the Resistance: Poetry as Protest, Diagrams Sketched on the Wind, Jason’s Connection, the Kalonopia Collective’s 2021 Disability Pride Anthology, eMerge, For The Birds Arts & Literary Magazine, and elsewhere. Diane’s creative nonfiction appears in Stone Canoe, Mollyhouse, The Abstract Elephant Magazine, Pop the Culture Pill, eMerge, and Beyond Words. Her flash fiction appears in Ordinary Madness; short fiction is published in A Coup of Owls. Diane served as Nine Mile Literary Magazine’s Assistant Editor after being Guest Editor for the Fall 2019 Special Double Issue on Neurodivergent, Disability, Deaf, Mad, and Crip poetics. She has published widely on Disability, education, accessibility, equity, and empowerment, among other subjects. A proud Neuroqueer, Mad, Crip, Genderqueer, Ashkenazi Jewish Hylozoist Nerd, Diane is honored to serve in the nonprofit sector. You can visit Diane online at: https://dianerwiener.com.
About Rachael A. Zubal-Ruggieri
Rachael A. Zubal-Ruggieri (she/her/hers, they/them/theirs) is a long-time employee at Syracuse University. She co-created (with Diane R. Wiener) “Cripping” the Comic Con, the first of its kind interdisciplinary and international symposium on disability and popular culture, previously held at SU. At conferences and as a guest lecturer for many years, Rachael has presented on the X-Men comic books, popular culture, and disability rights and identities from her perspective as a Neurodivergent person and as a Mad Queer Crip. Entries in their “Micro Mutant Postcard Project” have been published in Wordgathering: A Journal of Disability Poetry and Literature and Stone of Madness. Their most recent publications include two articles (co-authored with Diane R. Wiener) in the Journal of Literary & Cultural Disability Studies‘ Special Issue, “Cripping Graphic Medicine I: Negotiating Empathy and the Lived Experiences of Disability in and through Comics” (Volume 17, Issue 3).