Nimarta Narang & Carolyn Huynh

Acclaimed Vietnamese American author Carolyn Huynh recently participated in a panel to raise money for the non-profit Diasporic Vietnamese Artists Network (DVAN). She talked about her start in the industry, initially studying journalism to cover international social issues. Things changed for Huynh, who is in the process of adapting her debut fiction novel, The Fortunes of Jaded Women, for television, when she took her first narrative nonfiction class, and she began to pivot towards becoming a novelist.

“My villain origin story as a writer is rooted in journalism,” says Huynh. “But writing fiction is what began to heal my traumas.”

These days, more and more Asian/Pacific Islander (API) writers are toeing the line between fiction and nonfiction, exploring themes that range from coming-of-age immigrant narratives to genre stories. Award-winning Thai Indian journalist Nimarta Narang spent most of her career writing other people's stories but more recently found another calling in creative writing. This past year, she participated in three prestigious writing residencies to develop her fiction writing, hoping to explore more stories about her Thai Indian background.

“I discovered that my nonfiction writing greatly influences my fiction writing, and vice versa,” says Narang. “Talking to people and learning to be a sharp observer has been so impactful in becoming a more thoughtful writer. It has helped me pay better attention.”

Huynh and Narang sat down to talk about the interchangeability of their work in both fiction and nonfiction, the pull to write API stories that are more varied, layered, and international, and forging new endings for Southeast and South Asian stories.

Nimarta Narang: We both studied degrees [Narang studied psychology] that we don’t necessarily practice traditionally. I wanted to discuss why we chose our majors and how they propelled our writing journeys.

Carolyn Huynh: When you’re forced to decide at 17  what you want to be when you grow up, you’re idealistic. I thought I would be more grounded with the type of articles and stories I’d pursue. But, as I grew older, journalism became a hard space to sustain myself. So, I sought comfort in fictional stories more than nonfiction.

NN: I feel the same about journalism, so I initially wanted to study something outside of writing. Before I came to the US, a narrative was put in my head that if you make it in America, you’ve made it everywhere—something I don’t hold anymore. Psychology seemed like a practical degree, but I also wanted to learn how different cultural groups influenced one another and how stigma affects people with multiple stigmatized identities. The more I studied, the more interested I was in writing about these experiences for communities I felt connected to. So, I thought about the different ways of storytelling, which influenced the types of projects I took on.

You said you saw more comfort in fiction than in nonfiction. Can you talk a little bit more about that?

CH: Journalism is a brutal industry. In some ways, I’m glad I left, but at the same time, the publishing industry is not exactly the antidote either. To become a successful best-selling author, so many layers and nuances go into it that very few people are part of that percentage. I’m lucky I can sustain myself as a full-time author, but I’m also a screenwriter. I just started an eight-week playwriting program. I’m trying to expand what storytelling means to me.

Years ago, I dropped out of my MFA program on the second day because I received an offer from a literary agent—one of my biggest regrets.

I was in my mid to late 20s when that happened. My hubris got the better of me. I was like, “bye everybody, I’m going to become rich and famous.” But very quickly, I realized that’s not how publishing works. Publishing is a slog. And you will definitely not become rich or famous. It’s really about the journey versus one individual book.

NN: You pull from your travels to inform how you write. When you traveled to Hawaii, it was the catalyst to writing about the fortune teller, for example. How did studying journalism influence your fiction writing and how you approach research?

CH: For me, it’s a bit of journalism 101 when I approach my plot, which is who, what, where, when. One can argue that it is an outline of a novel, too.

My entryway was focused on the diaspora. I’m the daughter of an immigrant refugee, but there are so many levels to what that means.

You grew up in Thailand and are one of the most international people I know. How did you approach stories that are so topical and important to archive?

NN: I felt compelled to write about communities that I am a part of because I wanted to feel rooted in my own experience in America. Working on nonfiction projects was a way for me to understand the nuances of cultural groups and communities that I thought I could easily connect with but were quite difficult to do at points.

This desire for rootedness drew me to fiction as well. When we talk about API stories, there are many facets of existence and identities that aren’t discussed. You and I tell stories that cover a small fraction. I’m working on a story about a Sikh man who is an international student in the US. That is a story that I can understand more intimately than most.

Writing fiction is my way of asserting my experience onto paper that no one else can dispute. I can confidently bring the level of specificity, attention to detail, and sensitivity to it. Journalistic writing is a narrative telling of what happened based on facts but also from a specific perspective and bias. This leads me to my next question: What do you think the role of objectivity is as it relates to fiction and nonfiction writing?

CH: When I was 25, living in Seattle, I took a narrative nonfiction writing workshop, and my instructor was Wancy Young Cho at the Hugo House. He was one of the best writing instructors I’ve ever had. He talked a lot about the use of memory as a device. You cannot trust your own memory to be objective. You only see your reality and remember the parts you want to remember. Memory is elusive.

I use memory as a way to write stories I wish I could have had. I remember a funny DM from a Vietnamese reader came to me last year. She said, “Hey, I know your book is fiction because Vietnamese mothers never apologize.” I thought it was so funny and so poignant. I always have hopecore endings. It’s part of my writing ethos to create the happy endings I wish we could get as a diaspora and move more towards generational healing. I can’t be objective in fiction. I want to change the narrative so badly and rewrite my own memories.

In all these white romance stories, they can have happy endings. Why is it so hard for us to achieve a level where that’s a given?

NN: White authors have so much more room to play and explore. But you’re changing the narrative. Your characters broaden the confines of their geographic location by traveling outward and elsewhere and then come back together. What has your experience been trying to push these stories in a rigid industry like publishing?

CH: I don’t have the same publishing experience as many marginalized authors. My editor, Loan Le, happens to be Vietnamese American—and that’s so rare. It’s different in a way because she’s in the system. She can push for things that I cannot. That’s why it has been so special, especially for my debut.

NN: What you’re saying about having someone you don’t need to explain yourself to is rare. When I did the writing workshops and residencies this year, I was often the only person of color and also the only non-American. I noticed the critiques I received focused on “Why does this happen?” or “Why does the community do this?”. Everyone else was critiqued based on their story and plotlines. I remember feeling very frustrated. This is why I want to build a community of API friends and writers.

CH: Movies, TV, and books are becoming more international. There is an appetite for broader stories than those told through the Western gaze. Many authors want to sell foreign rights and have their books translated. My goal is to have my books translated and published in Vietnam.

NN: We’re moving in that direction.

CH: You and I talk a lot about these stories. But I have never seen or known what really represents you, whether on screen or in books. That’s a huge gap that we need to work on.

NN: Yes. There are more stories to be filled in.

Does the story help inform the medium most impactful for its telling, or is it more that the medium informs the story?

CH: I’ll give an example. I had this idea in the back of my head for a while. I pitched it as a screenplay, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized it wouldn’t have as much of an impact unless it was in play form. It only requires one setting. The tension lies in the dynamics of the cast.

Reading is intimate. We need to imagine the world you are crafting in your imagination. Screenwriting or playwriting is so collaborative. There are people I can talk to and brainstorm with. You’re giving away agency to other people. There is beauty in how restrained it is. Publishing can be so lonely.

NN: Many writer friends I know are rightfully wedded to their words and are protective. Do you feel that way with screenwriting or playwriting when it’s more collaborative?

CH: I am not precious with my words at all.

Going through the adaptation process feels freeing. Kill off whoever you’d like, do what you want. Change the setting. Combine characters. It’s a different medium. It’s funny because when I was going through the publishing process, I had a mindshift that this is a business. There is a whole team involved. This is out of my hands now. My words are no longer mine.

But, Nim, I want to turn it back on you. Knowing what you know now, what would you take and leave as you move more toward fiction?

NN:  What I grew in the past couple of years is confidence in the story I want to write. Not necessarily in my writing because I always feel like I can be better—which used to sadden me, but now is liberating because I know I can always be better. There is always room to play. I feel more confident in the story I want to write.

In journalism, you send so many pitches to different publications. Sometimes I’ll pitch a story I want to write and get pushback that the media cycle won’t want to pay attention. You must constantly convince people why this particular story is important, why you’re the best person to tell it, and your angle on a piece. It taught me the importance of hooking the reader with a lede and capitalizing on the economy of words.

The timeliness of a story is somewhat true in fiction writing, but I don’t necessarily want to take that approach with the stories I want to tell. I want to believe that if the story comes out in a couple of years, it will still be relevant and important. I don’t want to take that fear of attention, or lack thereof, into how I feel about the story I want to write.

CH: That’s a beautiful way of putting it. You’re so empathetic, too, that you would be able to handle the stories with care.

NN: I’ve been scared to dive into it. But trusting this care that I have won’t go away.

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Disclaimer: This interview was edited for length and clarity.

Huynh's second book, The Family Recipe, releases on April 1st, 2025.