As novelist Clarice Lispector once put it, “I write as if to save somebody’s life. Probably my own.” The sentiment could surely apply to countless novelists, though it’s especially fitting for Antoine Wilson. His latest book, Mouth to Mouth, recounts the rescue of a man drowning at sea. It’s a harrowing scene, vividly described in the excerpt above, but the most haunting part comes later. What exactly is the rescuer owed for his life-saving actions, and how far might he go to collect that debt?

When I spoke to Wilson about his revision process, I admitted that I missed some of the language from his early draft of that scene. He felt the same but suggested that a sense of loss is natural with revision. It’s all part of being a writer, he said.

One week after our phone interview, Wilson’s favorite living novelist, Javier Marías, passed away. I was grateful to have heard Wilson pay tribute to his writing while in our conversation: “[Marías] allows for lots of ambiguity in his work, and it reflects a consciousness that I find appealing.” During our conversation, ambiguity kept coming up. Saving a life, for example, can mean so many different things.

— Ben Purkert for Guernica

Guernica: Can I be honest? I miss the seagull. It’s still in there, but —

Wilson: Yeah, me too! I kinda regret condensing these sentences as much as I did. But that’s how it goes. It felt important for the tone of the book to pare down this section to its essentials. The seagull does, however, get its own mini-paragraph. Hopefully some readers will slow down and take notice.

Guernica: It’s interesting that you mention regret. It can be bittersweet, I think, looking back at early drafts — like reflecting on past relationships or something.

Wilson: Right. And my relationship with this novel was pretty complicated to begin with. I abandoned it multiple times.

Guernica: Oh?

Wilson: The first draft had me at a total dead end. I had 75,000 words and still couldn’t see where it was heading. Then, while reading W. G. Sebald’s Austerlitz, I had the idea of using an anonymous narrator, just as he does, and that’s when I set the book inside the airport lounge. Everything fell into place from there.

Guernica: Was it helpful to write the early draft entirely in first person before switching over? I feel like first person arguably affords the writer more freedom when drafting, because it comes more naturally, like speech. Do you agree?

Wilson: Two months ago I would’ve said yes. In fact, while recently working on something new, I texted a friend to say that I’ve come to terms with the fact that first person is my process. No matter what comes out the other end, I need to start in first person in order to get anywhere. Then, as soon as I made that declaration, my writing refuted it, and I suddenly started writing in close third person. Which is always how it goes: as soon as I declare anything concrete about my process, I find it’s no longer true. Like I’m living some sort of cosmic joke.

Guernica: I think that’s how it is for lots of us. Whenever we attempt to codify the process, the process has something to say about it.

Wilson: One hundred percent.

Guernica: Looking at the two passages side by side, I’m interested in how the final version has more interiority, which strikes me as somewhat counterintuitive. As if the third person is enabling the reader to enter Jeff’s consciousness more fully.

Wilson: In my opinion, close third person is better at depicting consciousness. Because whenever you say “I,” that’s the PR department. That’s the left brain interpreter. That’s the character speaking for himself or herself, whereas the psychic power of close third person lets you describe what they’re really thinking. It’s not the same as trying to sell the reader on something — though that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s sincere.

Guernica: “Every confession is also a performance.” That’s from your interview with Powell’s Books.

Wilson: That’s a great quote. I really said that?

Guernica: You did; I underlined it.

Wilson: Well, it’s particularly applicable to Mouth to Mouth, I think, which is all about the performance of disclosing something personal. And airport lounges are perfect for that sort of thing. They’re practically secular confession booths.

Guernica: Why did the novel need to be set in an airport specifically?

Wilson: There’s something about being in transit that compels people, on occasion, to tell their life story or divulge something they wouldn’t ordinarily. It’s hard to say exactly what it is. But it does seem like it’s part of human nature, and certainly for Jeff as a character.

Guernica: The Jeff of the early draft reads differently than the final iteration. Did you mean to revise him? Or, in the process of revising the book, does the character change along the way?

Wilson: That’s a good question. I think Jeff’s arc is the book. The Jeff of the opening pages didn’t change much in revision. But then, after he saves Francis’s life, and things turn darker, that’s all material that came later.

Guernica: Do you show drafts to people, or do you just sit with them yourself?

Wilson: The stuff that’s brand new, straight out of the keyboard, I read to my wife. Usually just to get her to say, “Keep going,” or occasionally, “You’re on the wrong track here.” I also have a close friend who looks at my drafts in progress. Then I’ll send the work along to my agent when it’s complete.

Guernica: What’s your process for incorporating the feedback you receive?

Wilson: Once I have a complete draft, that’s usually when I’ll make an outline of the whole thing. I put it through Scrivener, break it apart, and label everything so I can get a sense of the overarching structure. It lets me hold the book in my head. Then, whenever I receive feedback, I’m in a good place to incorporate it. With that bird’s eye view of the book, I can turn people’s notes into something actionable.

Guernica: I like this idea of holding the book in one’s head. As a poet, I’m used to printing out the entire manuscript and laying it out on the floor as a way of visualizing the structure. But, as I’ve learned writing fiction, it’s harder with a whole novel.

Wilson: And it’s frustrating because, without seeing the thing, it’s difficult to trust in it.

Guernica: Say more?

Wilson: When you’re working on a first draft, there’s inevitably that voice in your head telling you that you might be wasting your time. The book might not work. It might never come together. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve grown more comfortable with that uncertainty. I even welcome it now, or I try to. Because even if you know that you might not have something, you still need total commitment while writing. The one draft you’re writing in the moment, you have to believe that’s the final draft. You have to believe that’s the book.

Guernica: You began writing this book after you saved somebody’s life. Isn’t that right?

Wilson: In 1997, I was walking down by the waterfront in Seattle. And there was this guy in front of me, air drumming with his headphones on, not paying attention to anything, and I caught his attention just before he stepped out in front of an oncoming freight train. He realized what had happened and he looked at me and said, “My God, you saved my life. I’m going to buy you a big steak dinner!” And then, as soon as the train passed, he recommenced his air drumming and kept walking.

Ten years ago, I started reflecting on it. I thought, What would’ve happened if we’d actually had that steak dinner? And at the end of the dinner, what would’ve happened if we’d agreed to keep meeting up? That was the seed that became the whole book.

Guernica: Have you ever entertained the possibility that this air drummer is still out there and has read your novel?

Wilson: He didn’t strike me as a big reader, to be honest.

Guernica: It’s fascinating to me that you decided to write about this life-saving situation, but you revised it from an oncoming train to an ocean rescue. It’s as if the novelist in you was thinking, How can I dramatize this to make it more impactful?

Wilson: Strangely enough, I’ve had multiple life-saving experiences. I was an EMT in college. I’ve done CPR. I’ve felt the bones, the sternum. I’m also a surfer, and I’ve had to help other people in the ocean sometimes, as most surfers have — nobody actively drowning, but people in real distress. I guess I bring this up because it’s always fascinated me, the relationship between the rescuer and the person rescued. In some cultures, if you save someone’s life, you become responsible for them. There are so many strange and interesting customs surrounding the power of that moment.

Guernica: Jeff’s reaction seems distinctly American, perhaps, in that he’s rather obsessed with being rewarded for his good deed. Not a steak dinner, maybe, but something similar.

Wilson: Yes, or at least acknowledgement of some kind. It’s funny, during the surfing incidents I mentioned, I noticed that the people rarely said thank you. And it was strange, because I definitely was expecting a verbal thanks. In reality, I think the people were exhausted. But there’s also an aspect of humiliation, of being fished out of the water. I’ve been humbled by the ocean countless times, but it’s not the same as being humiliated.

Guernica: The novel has received a lot of acclaim. Has it reached any readers in ways you might not have anticipated? Anyone, perhaps, who’s had their own life saved, or saved someone else’s?

Wilson: Nothing really jumps out. But I will say that, before the book came out, I asked people on Facebook, “Have you ever saved someone’s life?” And that turned into a fascinating thread. Everyone had an anecdote to share. And there were so many different definitions of what it means to save a life. Someone would say, “I don’t know if this counts, but I called a friend when he was about to kill himself,” or “I helped my cousin get sober.” You know what I mean? So many different forms that saving can take.

Guernica: That’s really powerful. I never thought of it that way.

I’ve read that you sometimes write using a typewriter, and that you purposefully bought the same model typewriter as your favorite living novelist. Would you mind sharing who that is?

Wilson: The Spanish writer, Javier Marías. I read an interview with him in which he talked about the particular electric model he uses, and I thought I’d give it a shot. It wasn’t too expensive on eBay. I often use my computer to write, or even my phone, but there is something about working on a typewriter that makes you feel like you’re getting real work done. You’re making noise. Paper is moving through. I was hoping that the Marías juju would flow directly into my typewriter from his, but alas.

Guernica: What draws you to his work?

Wilson: For one thing, sentence structure. He does a few things that are quote-unquote “against the rules.” For example, he writes sometimes in a multiple-choice way; he’ll describe something as X, or perhaps Y, or maybe Z. In a beginning writing class, the teacher would tell you, “Pick the one that it is.” But he allows for lots of ambiguity in his work, and it reflects a consciousness that I find appealing. I’m also fascinated with the way he handles time.

Guernica: Any writing teachers who had a particularly significant impact on you?

Wilson: James Alan McPherson. He was a north star for me. In terms of craft, yes, but also the artistic journey beyond the craft journey. The human journey.

I remember one thing he said that never left me. He was one of my thesis advisors, and after I submitted [my thesis], he said, “Okay, great. You can write. Now what are you going to do?” It was this reminder that there’s an aspect of the writing journey that has to do with being in the world. This might sound pretentious as hell, but if you take literary art seriously, you’re on a journey that goes way beyond craft. It’s a question of how to be in the world. That’s where it all leads in the end.

To read more interviews from our Back Draft archive, click here.