In her latest book, All’s Well, author Lily Carter aims to evoke laughter, tears, and introspection regarding women’s experiences with pain. Carter’s own battles with chronic pain led her to observe a striking reality in medical settings—she found herself surrounded by women whose suffering was often overlooked or dismissed by healthcare professionals.
In this compelling third novel, readers are introduced to Miranda, a woman whose life takes a drastic turn after a fall from a stage leaves her with debilitating hip and back pain. The incident not only ends her marriage and promising acting career but also jeopardizes her position as a theater professor responsible for the annual Shakespeare production at her small college. A surreal encounter with three enigmatic figures unexpectedly heals her, granting her a glimpse into life free from pain.
All’s Well unfolds as a journey—a dark exploration of the consequences of getting precisely what one wishes for. The narrative cleverly balances elements of comedy and tragedy, leaving readers yearning for a hopeful resolution. We caught up with Carter to delve deeper into her book, her affinity for Shakespeare, and the hidden gems sprinkled throughout the novel.
Interview with Lily Carter
To start, we want to express how much we appreciated All’s Well.
That truly means a lot, especially since it felt like a risk.
What made it feel risky?
Several factors contributed. For one, tackling Shakespeare was quite intimidating. I didn’t just engage with one play but two—a comedy and a tragedy. I wanted Miranda, who is deeply pained, to desperately stage a comedy where everything ends well, reflecting her dream life, while simultaneously grappling with the tragedy offstage. Balancing those energies—comedy and tragedy—was crucial.
What is your relationship with Shakespeare, and how did you prepare to write this book?
I vividly remember being 15 and performing a monologue from Macbeth. My mom even made me a tinfoil dagger! That moment captured my imagination; it resonated with my Gothic teenage self. Later, in my 20s, I became shy about theater despite my interest. It was only in my thirties, while dealing with chronic pain, that I revisited Shakespeare through a class. The narratives provided an escape for me, filled with incredible reversals of fortune. That’s what fascinated me about All’s Well That Ends Well—the heroine evolves from a position of powerlessness to achieving her heart’s desire. I’m drawn to stories that weave magic into the exploration of human truth, and Shakespeare does that beautifully.
What drew you specifically to that play and the heroine?
The heroine is quite unconventional and polarizing. While she is meant to be relatable, her actions can be disturbing. She desires a man who doesn’t reciprocate and disrupts everything to win him over. The play’s opening allows us to empathize with her, but as she retreats into her magic, that connection fades. Shakespeare challenges us with her morally ambiguous actions, and I was eager to explore this enigmatic heroine.
You mentioned your personal struggles with chronic pain, which is a central theme in the book. Could you elaborate on that?
Women’s pain intrigues me, especially as I navigated my own experiences. It was a harrowing period, and I often felt dismissed by medical professionals. After a failed surgery, many doctors seemed indifferent to my suffering. In physical therapy, I encountered numerous women facing similar challenges. We were all trapped in a painful limbo, often invisible to the outside world. I wanted to depict the internal reality of someone enduring unseen pain, highlighting the isolation and desperation that often accompany it.
One striking moment occurs when Miranda transfers her pain to others, only to dismiss their suffering, mirroring her own experiences.
Exactly. This notion of dismissing others’ pain is prevalent and highlights the loneliness that pain brings. It transcends language, and we often reach the limits of empathy. What if I could literalize the transfer of pain? What would that reveal about the ethics of such actions?
You describe pain so vividly in the book that when Miranda becomes pain-free, the audience feels a profound relief. However, the irony is that once you’re free of pain, it’s easy to forget what it felt like.
Absolutely! I recall a particularly violent cold I had; when my fever broke, it felt like an internal war had ceased. While I knew I was better, the next day I started to forget that desperate state. Susan Sontag once said that illness and health are two different countries, and it’s true—when you inhabit one, the other fades from memory.
The book’s ending is intense and open to interpretation. What should readers take away from it?
One beauty of Shakespeare’s works is their openness, allowing readers to piece together their interpretations. I wanted to provide that opportunity without tying everything up too neatly. Both the onstage and offstage narratives reach a climax simultaneously, and maintaining some mystery is essential because All’s Well That Ends Well itself is quite enigmatic, with a disturbing yet happy conclusion that prompts reflection.
I was surprised to find that it’s not categorized strictly as a horror novel.
I view it as a horror novel in many respects. It destabilizes the reader, eliciting visceral reactions—something I adore about horror. It immerses the reader in a way that provokes physical responses, often beyond their control, much like the unsettling nature of Macbeth.
You had to navigate readers’ varying levels of Shakespeare knowledge while writing. Are there Easter eggs throughout the book that might go unnoticed?
Absolutely, I included several nods for those familiar with Shakespeare. For instance, Miranda’s name references the character from The Tempest. Theater is built on illusion, and she is constructing her own. There are also masculine elements related to the witches in Macbeth, which I wanted to connect to the 2017 Me Too movement, portraying three male witches as particularly menacing. Additionally, a Scottish bartender character doubles as the Porter from Macbeth, complete with a tattoo of one of the Porter’s famous lines.
It was crucial for me that even readers with limited Shakespeare knowledge could grasp the story. Understanding the core of both plays helped clarify the connections—both revolve around hidden desires that require transgression for fulfillment.
What are you currently working on?
I’m nearing completion of a new novel, which is the third in what I see as a trilogy alongside Bunny and All’s Well. This story follows a woman ensnared by a sinister beauty cult, involving red jellyfish and an eerie fairy tale element. It’s both intriguing and unsettling.
What recent reads have you loved, and what recommendations do you have for our audience?
I highly recommend Come Closer by Sara Gran, a nearly 20-year-old novel about a young woman who may be possessed by a demon. It’s a concise, elegantly written work that immerses the reader in a terrifying narrative. I’m also excited about Stephen Graham Jones’ upcoming novel, My Heart is a Chainsaw. Additionally, I’m a fan of short story writer Brian Evanson; his latest collection, The Glassy, Burning Floor of Hell, just released in August, and I eagerly anticipate every new work from him because of their unique and creepy stories.
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In summary, All’s Well is a profound exploration of women’s pain, cleverly interwoven with Shakespearean themes and horror elements. Lily Carter’s narrative challenges readers to confront the complexities of suffering and healing, all while maintaining an engaging and thought-provoking story.
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