Mystery and The Ocean: A Conversation with Emma Stonex
Photo Credit: Melissa Lesage
“The novel is told from multiple first-person perspectives to heighten the sense of apartness and miscommunication: much of the sadness in the story could have been avoided if those involved had spoken transparently.”
Hello Emma and thank you so much for taking the time to answer our questions. I wondered if you could first tell our readers a little bit about your writing process. Has it changed over the past couple of years?
My process has always been to show up to the work every day. Beyond that, everything is subject to change. But having the discipline to sit down with my novel, even if I don’t feel like it, even if it’s only for fifteen minutes, even if I’ve got a million other things going on, is what keeps me going. Otherwise, the book starts to feel intimidating, and once that happens it can be hard to take control of again. I need to show it who’s boss and remind it that I’m in charge – even if I don’t feel like I am.
Certainly, over the course of the pandemic, I’ve found writing harder. It’s seemed to go one of two ways for creative people: some have found solace in the escapism awarded by art, while others have found it difficult to spin new universes when the one we’re confronted with is so consuming and problematic. Luckily, writing is a job that is necessarily lonely, so the lockdowns weren’t difficult in that respect. But having a family who is also at home, including two young children in need of schooling, was another challenge entirely!
I found it fascinating that The Lamplighters was inspired by the mysterious disappearance of three lighthouse keepers off the Hebrides in 1900. Could you tell us a little bit more about this incident? And what was it about this story that inspired you to write your novel? Have you always been interested in the sea and lighthouses?
I first read about the Flannan Isles vanishing years ago and was immediately hooked. Incredibly, three keepers really did go missing from a remote Scottish rock lighthouse, and, to this day – more than a hundred and twenty years later – no one knows for sure what happened to them. The men left a series of clues in their wake: a locked entrance door, the clocks inside the tower were stopped, and a weather log described a mighty storm, despite the skies having been clear. I had long wanted to write a novel about the sea, and as soon as I read about this baffling, awe-inspiring disappearance, all the pieces fell into place: the melancholy, lonely setting; the turbulent, mysterious ocean; the psychology of the lighthouse keepers. Lighthouses, for me, are such powerful symbols, of danger and refuge, of hope and connection, of darkness and light. I’m fascinated by the idea of living on one for weeks at a time. The Lamplighters was published into a pandemic when so many of us were facing extreme isolation and loneliness: the book carries extra resonance for me because of that.
Could you tell our readers a little bit about the name, The Lamplighters – where did this name come from and how did you decide on it as the title for your novel?
For a while the working title was The Tower, but that sounded too hard, then The Watchmen, but that sounded too sci-fi. I hit on The Lamplighters by accident. It’s the title of a poem by Robert Louis Stevenson, author of Treasure Island, who was part of the Stevenson engineering family who designed most of Scotland’s lighthouses. I love the idea of a sensitive writerly type among these burly, technically minded engineers, and it’s compelling to see how the ocean finds its way into his writing. Lamplighters, traditionally, are nothing to do with lighthouses: they used to maintain gas streetlamps. But the word was right and applies to many of the themes in the book, as well as having the Stevenson connection. It feels warm and romantic, and human. I knew it was right straightaway.
You have received some excellent criticism on your writing style, including the description of your work being ‘pitch-perfect’, as your ‘descriptions of the damp, briny, windowless interior of the Maiden, the shifting seas, the choking fogs and sudden, unnatural sounds, are simply breathtaking; and, like all the best literary writing, they don’t halt the action, they lift and propel it.’ How have you found the experience of being a debut novelist, and how did you go about refining your writing style?
I carried the idea for The Lamplighters for so long in my mind – over ten years – that to finally have it out there and for readers to connect with it is magical. I’ve actually had novels published before, under pseudonyms, but The Lamplighters is the first under my real name. I kept my name for this because it’s my heart-and-soul story, the one I’ve always wanted to tell and the one that’s really me. I think previous experience has prepared me well for publication of a more personal project. I know how competitive the business is, how books win or lose on a vast array of factors, and that you’ve got to be able to take criticism on the chin. My writing style isn’t something I’m conscious of, although I’m aware of my many bad habits, most of which I try to catch through rounds and rounds of edits.
I noticed one description of The Lamplighters as a novel that shines a light on the danger that comes with keeping secrets and the damage that can be caused by a lack of communication. Do you think this is a correct interpretation? And were these ideas you were conscious of during the writing process?
Yes, I’d agree with that interpretation. It’s something I did want to explore while writing. The novel is told from multiple first-person perspectives to heighten the sense of apartness and miscommunication: much of the sadness in the story could have been avoided if those involved had spoken transparently. Ultimately, The Lamplighters’ characters stand in isolation from each other, as do the sea towers. The emphasis is on the importance of lighting the light, reaching out, and guiding those we love home.
The success of your novel relies partly on the fact that each complex character is beautifully developed and well-drawn out. How did you go about the task of creating a selection of very distinct characters, and are there any characters that hold a specific place in your heart?
Arthur, the Principal Keeper of the Maiden Rock, is dear to my heart. I don’t know why I feel especially close to him, but I do. If I’d been a lighthouse keeper, I think I might have been like him – good in my own company, enjoying quiet, purposeful tasks, living in awe of the sea. Through the course of my research, I read every book about lighthouses I could get my hands on, and most of these were memoirs. Hearing from those who’d worked on the lights brought me closer to this extinct way of life, and of course it wasn’t just the keepers who had stories to tell, but their families too. There is a superb collection of interviews by oral historian Tony Parker (Lighthouse, Eland Publishing, 2005) that sheds light on people in the service – this was hugely inspiring for my characters and their beliefs. But there’s a lot of me in these personalities too, particularly in how they feel about the sea. The Lamplighters is really a love letter to the sea, to the briny British coastline, and how it makes me feel.
I thought your description of grief was incredibly moving and beautifully written. Were you inspired by any other works of art that deal with grief when writing this section?
Thank you. Without giving away spoilers, my inspiration for this section was an article I read in a magazine, years ago, while I was at the hairdresser’s. I hadn’t started writing The Lamplighters at that point, I didn’t have the characters in place or the storyline, and I certainly didn’t know what was going to happen to Helen. But when I started writing her experiences, this piece, written by a mother who’d recently joined a bereavement group, came rushing back to me. It’s funny how the mind holds on to things like that and keeps them safe until they’re ready to play their part.
One of the ideas that is explored in The Lamplighters is job automation and the sense of working in a manual job that won’t necessarily exist for much longer. Was this an idea you were keen to explore?
Every time I pay for my shopping on a self-serve checkout, I feel a pang of disgrace. Human contact is so important, and while job automation makes our world more efficient (setting aside unidentified items in the bagging area), it risks us losing that connection with each other. All the lighthouses in the UK are electric today. Nobody lives in them anymore. In one sense, that’s positive: it keeps families together, it doesn’t force a person into an unnatural state of living, and it’s more streamlined. But for sailors at sea, there used to be something besides the light beam that offered comfort: the promise of human souls nearby, of company at last, the sense that were trouble to come, someone would be there. All progress comes with sacrifice. We should never undervalue what makes us human.
As a debut novelist, I wondered if I could ask you to recommend to our readers a few debut novels you have enjoyed recently?
I really enjoyed Metronome by Tom Watson, which is an elegant, unsettling tale about a couple in exile on a remote island. Lizzie Pook’s Moonlight and the Pearler’s Daughter is another excellent debut, full of adventure and gorgeous descriptions of the sea; and I loved Wahala by Nikki May, by turns a funny and tragic portrait of race and friendship in modern Britain. I can also recommend Black Butterflies by Patricia Morris, which follows one family’s struggle during the Siege of Sarajevo.
