'A Year to Write It from Scratch': The 2025 Booker Finalists Reveal the Intimate Stories Behind Their Novels
Kiran Desai: The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny
But here's where it gets controversial... What if the dismantling of an empire and the clearing of a loved one’s belongings could inspire a novel about loneliness and connection? Kiran Desai’s The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny begins with a poignant scene: the emptying of her father’s flat after his death. A crowd descends, swiftly stripping the space of its memories—cupboards, chairs, shirts, and even a guitar. Yet, amidst the chaos, Desai finds inspiration in the fleeting nature of existence and the enduring power of human bonds. Sonia and Sunny, two strangers who meet on a night train, become the heart of a story that spans years and continents, exploring the rifts between nations, races, genders, and religions, all while questioning the very nature of loneliness. Desai’s journey is as much about the characters’ transformation as it is about her own, as she grapples with the fragility and restorative depth of their relationship. But what if loneliness isn’t just an absence, but a quiet peace after the storm? Desai challenges us to consider the beauty in solitude and the dignity of individual being, all while weaving in a mysterious faceless deity that becomes the visual symbol uniting her narrative threads. And this is the part most people miss... the way art, journalism, and love intersect in the unseen world, shaping the plot of Sonia and Sunny’s unresolved romance.
Ben Markovits: The Rest of Our Lives
What if a midlife crisis and a road trip could lead to reconciliation instead of escape? Ben Markovits’ The Rest of Our Lives starts with a simple yet powerful premise: a man whose wife had an affair, and his decision to keep driving after dropping his daughter at university. But here’s the twist—Markovits isn’t just writing about an unhappy marriage; he’s exploring the tension between feeling wronged and the realization that life’s grades aren’t always based on who’s at fault. Boldly highlight this... Markovits’ own health struggles, including sudden exhaustion and a swollen face, became symbols of middle age’s gradual decline, shaping both the plot and his emotional connection to the story. What if the road trip genre could be flipped on its head? Instead of running away, Tom’s journey becomes a path to reconciling with the next stage of life, both for himself and his wife. Markovits asks: Can we find honesty and love in the conversations we have in our heads, even when the other person isn’t around? Thought-provoking question... Is it possible to score higher than a B in life when your marriage is a C-?
Susan Choi: Flashlight
What if a childhood trip to Japan and a decades-old newspaper article could collide to create a novel about catastrophe and memory? Susan Choi’s Flashlight begins with a question: What is the earliest ancestor of a book? For Choi, it’s a childhood journey to Japan in the late 1970s, a trip so profound it stayed with her for decades. But it wasn’t until she stumbled upon a New York Times article about a Japanese schoolgirl who vanished in the same era that the seeds of her novel were sown. And this is the part most people miss... Choi’s process involved imagining her familiar childhood through a ‘fantasy machine of worst-case scenarios,’ warping the ordinary into the extraordinary. What if the thunderbolt of catastrophe was too thunderous for fiction? Choi’s solution was to cheat—writing about her protagonist post-thunderbolt, without revealing what it was. This ‘hack’ led to a short story, which then blossomed into the full novel. Controversial interpretation... Could the most outlandish ideas be the key to unlocking our deepest memories and fears?
Andrew Miller: The Land in Winter
What if the origins of a novel are hidden in weather, memory, and a mother’s anecdote? Andrew Miller’s The Land in Winter starts with a blurred landscape of snowfall, a village outside Bristol in 1962, and a bare story about his parents rushing to an emergency. Boldly highlight this... Miller’s writing process was marked by a sense of liberation, a departure from the anxious struggle of his previous novel. He allowed his characters the freedom to see out their parts without being shoved around by plot. But here’s the catch—a book without a crisis is one to worry about. Miller’s year of intensive rewrites wasn’t about tidying up, but about shaping the wildness and oddness of the narrative, exploring how big our lives might be and what that means. Thought-provoking question... Can a novel truly capture the consequences of a bigger life, or does it remain snow-blind to its own creation?
Katie Kitamura: Audition
What if a stranger claiming to be your son could unravel everything you thought you knew about love and motherhood? Katie Kitamura’s Audition begins with a simple yet haunting premise: a successful actress is approached by a young man who believes he is her son. And this is the part most people miss... Kitamura was drawn to the illogical nature of the headline ‘A stranger told me he was my son,’ not wanting to resolve its mystery but to explore the universal experiences that feel mutually exclusive. Controversial interpretation... What if the story isn’t about adoption or delusion, but about the long process of a child growing into a stranger to their parents? Kitamura’s novel delves into the satisfactions and devastations of parenting, asking: Can love and motherhood coexist with the strangeness of watching your child become someone you don’t fully recognize?
David Szalay: Flesh
What if failure could be the birthplace of a novel? David Szalay’s Flesh was conceived in the shadow of abandoning a four-year project, a decision that left him with a blank screen and a blinking cursor. Boldly highlight this... Szalay’s self-doubt was palpable—could he risk abandoning another novel? His solution was to start with simple ideas: a story that was partly English, partly Hungarian, and an exploration of existence as a physical experience. Thought-provoking question... What if our physicality is the foundation of all other aspects of life, and what does it mean to return to being ‘irresponsible matter’? Szalay’s journey from failure to creation is a testament to the resilience of the creative spirit, but it also raises a question: Can a novel born from such pressure truly be free of its anxious origins?
