Interview #212 — Tracey Lien

by May Ngo

Tracey Lien was born and raised in southwestern Sydney, Australia. She earned her MFA at the University of Kansas and was previously a reporter for the Los Angeles Times.

She lives in Brooklyn, New York. All That's Left Unsaid is her first novel.

Tracey speaks to May about having a growth mindset, working hard on your craft and finding ways to tell compelling stories about difficult subjects.

What was your background and what did you do before writing?
I grew up in south-west Sydney in the Cabramatta/Fairfield area and my introduction to writing was through journalism. Like so many tweens in Australia, I loved Dolly magazine, and it was my gateway [to writing] because I could look at the magazine’s masthead and see career progression. I’d notice how one month someone would be at the bottom of the masthead, like as an editorial assistant, then a few months later they would be further up and become an assistant writer. Because of that, I never viewed journalism as being a risky profession. Even though most people consider journalism a volatile industry, seeing that masthead showed me there was a path I could follow.

I was drawn to it because—besides the magazine being fun—I liked how whenever I read an human interest article about someone, I would often learn something about them or about a community [they were a part of], and it would open my world in some small way. Coming from south-west Sydney, it felt like my world was very small, [so] it felt exciting to be in a profession where you might be able to change someone’s mind, or to teach them something. I knew I wanted to be a journalist at 13 years old. And by the time I was able to intern at Dolly, I realised that I had outgrown it. But I stuck with it and studied journalism at UTS. I didn’t have a clear idea of what kind of journalist I wanted to be, or the kind of publication I wanted to work for, but I knew that I wanted to pursue a role where I could tell stories that would stick with people.

[After I graduated] I interned everywhere: at local newspapers and arts magazines; I ended up working for a video game publication. I did everything I could to strengthen my writing. The video game reporting landed me a job at Vox Media, which [at the time] had just started up. I was their Australia-based video game reporter, and when a position opened in San Francisco, I applied for the transfer and moved there.

I was at Vox for just under 2 years, and from there I got a job at the LA Times, covering tech. I really loved my editors and the rigorous editing that I got while there; I learned so much so fast. I think working there was where I really learned to be a writer. I learned to write clearly and concisely, and to look out for what’s interesting and what’s newsworthy. It was a dream job. But around the time that Donald Trump got elected, my job changed—suddenly I was covering a new crisis every day. I felt like I was moving further and further away from why I entered journalism in the first place, which was to tell stories that had an impact on people, to tell stories that could still be relevant a year later.

At that point I had a bit of an identity crisis because I’d spent so long pursuing a career in journalism and it was the only thing I’d ever wanted to do. A former editor of mine suggested that I apply to MFA programs because, although I didn’t want to be a journalist anymore, I still enjoyed writing. [If I got into an MFA program], I could learn to write fiction, and with a Master’s degree, I could teach. I had never considered going to grad school for that, so I only applied to fully-funded programs because I didn’t want to go into debt. And I always thought, look, if it doesn’t work out, I can always return to journalism. Eventually I was accepted by the University of Kansas, left my job at the LA Times, and wrote All That’s Left Unsaid while there. In my final six months of the degree, I started to panic because, although I’d written a novel, I didn’t know if it would lead to a viable career. I told myself I would focus on trying to sell the novel and, if that didn’t work, I’d figure something out. Fortunately, my novel sold in the last week of my MFA.

Wow, that’s incredible. What an amazing journey you’ve had, where things seemed to happen at the right time, but at the same time you were willing to take risks.
The fact that my parents were refugees—who took enormous risks and sacrificed so much—made me feel as though I have no excuses. They lost so much, they made it to Australia, they built a modest life, they raised my brother and I, and we both turned out fine. Given that I’ve had a relatively comfortable life, I should be willing to take risks. The least I can do is pursue the things that I want to pursue.

In a way, all the sacrifices they’ve made is so that we can go on to do what we want to do, even if that might not fit into their idea of success or the ‘good life’, or what they think makes you happy.
There’s an interview with Jenny Zhang, author of Sour Heart, where she said something to the effect of, her parents love her unconditionally, and part of that is through releasing her into worlds that they don’t have access to, and that they might never understand. But the reason why they do that is because they love her. I relate to a bit of that.

My parents may not understand why I’m interested in the things I’m interested in, and they may not understand this particular industry, but the way I interpret their love for me is that they [are willing to] release me; I’m released to pursue this. Even though the things they say may not indicate ’freedom’ by any means, even if they continue to remind me of the other careers I could’ve had, or another way I could be living my life, I know that deep down, it’s OK.

What was the inspiration for All That’s Left Unsaid?
When I started the MFA program, I didn’t think I would write a novel. I went in with the aim of learning how to write fiction [in general]. A semester into the course, a classmate asked if I was working on a short story collection because everything I’d written seemed to be set in the same universe. All my stories took place in Cabramatta and were told from the perspective of young Asian girls from immigrant or refugee households. It hadn’t occurred to me that I had done that. I was clearly circling something. And after I thought about it, I realised that I was trying to get the reader to understand how it feels [to be in that universe].

I want people to know how it feels to grow up Asian, specifically in Australia during the 90’s. Now what does that mean? It’s about conditional citizenship. Similar to the girls in my stories, I was told from the time I was in kindergarten that you belong, you’re as Aussie as they come, we’re going to learn ‘Waltzing Matilda’ together, that Australia values multiculturalism. And then you realise at some point that this isn’t true, and yet you feel powerless to do anything about it. You feel a bit gaslighted. You feel like you’re not on an equal footing as everyone else, like you can be written off at any moment for a misstep. And that is such an uncomfortable and unnerving place to be.

I realised that that was where I found myself essentially the whole time I lived in Australia during my childhood and adolescence. There was always the sense that my citizenship was conditional on my impeccable behaviour, and on my gratitude, and if I did anything to step out of line then I would risk being perceived as a nuisance, or worse, as a threat.

If you start dehumanising people in these small ways—whether that’s [through the idea of] conditional citizenship, or confusing one Asian for another, or making fun of accents or what people eat—you’re only a few steps removed from dehumanising them enough to justify violence against them. And we saw that at the start of the pandemic, especially in the U.S., where Asian people were physically attacked. We saw people get murdered. The stakes are high.

And so I wanted to write a novel that explored those themes, but I didn’t want it to feel like homework for the reader. It’s such a heavy topic: sometimes if you say, this is a story about race, some people will recoil. Or they will say, I’m into it, but I need to be in the right head space to read something like this. But people don’t often say the same about murder mysteries or thrillers. From here, I found myself looking to the novels that I loved, [the ones] which are page-turners. What can I learn from them to make the ideas that I want to get across more accessible? That’s how I spent most of my MFA: growing this idea and studying what other writers had done to make their stories compelling.

Would you say that your MFA experience was positive and really helped you to become the writer you want to be?
I think the most valuable thing that the MFA gave me was the time and space to write. I know lots of people are able to write their novels while holding down a day job, or parenting children, or doing a whole bunch of other things. But I’m not sure I would have been able to do that, certainly not at the speed with which I wrote All That’s Left Unsaid. And I’m not sure I could have written a novel while being a journalist either, because journalism is all-consuming. Being in a MFA program was a unique experience because I could say, ‘I’m writing a novel’ and no one would be dismissive of that. Being in that space where I was allowed to take myself seriously—that was important. Having the time to experiment was important. I also had professors who were super supportive, and who gave precise and detailed feedback on my work. Having that combination was what made it such a positive experience.

What do you love most about writing?
I love that I get to focus on things that I care about. It’s everything from the writing itself, to the research, to reading other people’s work both for pleasure and to understand structure, language, composition. Everything is in service of me ultimately focusing on what I care about. And so my time never feels wasted. It’s fun and it gives me a sense of purpose.

Did you feel like you had to leave Australia in order to become a writer, and to become the writer that you wanted to be?
I think it definitely helped. I think it was important to have the distance in order for me to think critically about Australia and about my time in Cabramatta. If I had stayed, I suspect I may not have had the opportunity to reflect on my experience. As they say, it’s really hard to read the label from inside the jar. Having left [the continent], I could see Australia from a distance, but I could also see Australia through the lens of the U.S.. How do people in the U.S. talk about race and how does multiculturalism work? What conversations are people having about inequality and immigration and asylum seekers? Seeing that difference gave me a fresh perspective on Australia. And the fact that I was in the U.S. for so long, it gave me the chance to miss Australia. I could really think about the things that I wished were within reach, the things that shaped me, the things that I like about myself that I attribute to [growing up in] Australia.

Do you go back often to Australia, and how do you feel when you’re back in Fairfield?
I go back every year, and typically I spend most of my time in south-west Sydney. Whenever I’m with my parents and extended family, I just click right back in. Any progress I’ve made as an adult is erased, and I’m a fifteen-year-old again getting bossed around by my aunts. And when I go into the city, it’s always a shock. I remember when the Opal card was introduced, and I was like, wait, they’ve changed the public transport ticketing system? It felt like I was in Sliders, the TV show from the 90s, where you jump into a portal and end up in an alternate universe. Going back after the pandemic, I saw that Neeta City in Fairfield had been renamed. Or seeing that the Shell petrol station on The Horsley Drive had shut, or that the Red Lea chicken shop didn’t have the same signage anymore … These small things are a reminder of the time I’ve been away, and that life has continued without me.

What do you think of the writing that is coming out of Australia now, especially from people from underrepresented cultural backgrounds?
It’s so encouraging to see the diversity in literature that’s coming out of Australia. Not only what’s coming out, but what’s being supported as well. Bookstores are giving space to authors from historically underrepresented groups, writers’ festivals are diversifying their panels, and literary prizes are acknowledging a wider array of literature. When I was in high school, that wasn’t the case. I remember the closest thing we had to that was the success of Looking for Alibrandi, and, a bit after that, Alice Pung’s Unpolished Gem (which still holds up fantastically, by the way). I hope that this is just the beginning.

Do you have any advice for emerging writers?
One of the things that helped me when I started writing my novel (and which continues to help me today) is having a growth mindset. I came up against my own limitations as a writer all the time while working on All That’s Left Unsaid, but I was never dispirited because I believed that if I kept at it, I would improve. There’s inevitably going to be a gulf between the thing you imagine and what actually makes it onto the page, but if you keep showing up, you’ll come closer to closing the gap.

Who are you inspired by?
I’m inspired by people who have longevity in their chosen fields, who grow into their craft and get better and better with each project they attempt.

What are you listening to?
I listen to audiobooks whenever I go for a walk, usually memoirs narrated by the authors themselves. I’m not very discerning—if I so much as recognise the author’s name, I’ll give it a shot.

What are you reading?
My favorite novel that I recently finished was Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver. Now there’s someone who has longevity!

How do you practice self-care?
By being with friends.

What does being Asian-Australian mean to you?
Being Asian Australian means being just like everyone else. It means having the full range of complexity afforded to any person. It means being smart and funny and ambitious and lazy and generous and selfish and open and stubborn and meek and brave. It means being capable of success and failure and everything in between.