Soon Wiley’s debut novel, When We Fell Apart, wrestles with the ultimate question: How well can you truly know someone?
The book takes place in the vibrant city of Seoul, where Min, a Korean American who works for Samsung, is jolted by tragic news: His new girlfriend, Yu-jin, has died by suicide. Yu-jin seemingly had it all: beauty, talent, confidence, and an exciting life that was awaiting her after graduating from college. Min decides to investigate this devastating turn of events, but he learns that Yu-jin’s father, the minister of defense for South Korea, a terrifying government official, will go to the ends of the Earth to protect his family’s reputation, even if that means obscuring the truth. Still determined to find answers despite the obstacle that Yu-jin’s father presents, Min quickly realizes that the answers he desperately desires are just out of reach.
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Told from both Min’s and Yu-jin’s perspectives, this is a haunting, thought-provoking novel that presents many questions about belonging, freedom, identity, and how the three intersect.
Shondaland spoke with Wiley, who is also Korean American, about identity, the complexities of grief, wanting the best for one’s children, and more.
KATIE TAMOLA: This is your debut novel. How did you land on telling a story about a young woman, living somewhat of a double life, in South Korea who dies by suicide?
SOON WILEY: That’s an interesting question, and the answer is probably even more convoluted than you think. When I was thinking about writing a book [after] I graduated from my MFA program — I’ve written mostly short stories, so this is really my first crack at a novel — I was kind of fixated on this idea of losing someone close to you to suicide, but maybe this [was actually] someone that you weren’t super-close to.
I was thinking about how our culture teaches us how to act when we lose a loved one or a partner or, you know, someone we’re kind of deeply intimate with. But I was interested in how a person would react if they lost someone who they kind of are in a casual relationship with. That kind of concept in losing someone [where] maybe you aren’t really certain of the boundaries and also you aren’t really certain of how to act — like, how much do I mourn this person? We’ve only been dating for a couple months, and it was casual, and we weren’t soul mates or meant to be.
And I had read this Javier Marías novel that also included this guy who goes to this café every day, and one day the waitress isn’t there, and then he finds out that she’s committed suicide. That kind of starts spinning the wheels. So, that was my initial thought — how would someone react in that situation? And what would they feel? And would it cause them to doubt things? Would it cause them to delve deeper into things?
So, the seed of Yu-jin, because you’re referencing her, was actually [born out of] how Min would react to her death. And so, he was very much the center of the story when I was drafting the first draft of the book. And it wasn’t actually until the second major revision that I included Yu-jin’s chapters.
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The first draft of the book was actually all written from Min’s perspective, and it was written in first person, so we didn’t actually even get any of her point of view until my full second revision. And that’s when I actually sat down and wrote her sections. So, the chapters that you read from her were actually written almost two years after Min’s sections, if that makes sense. And it was only after I’d finished both of them independently that I then kind of stuck them together.
KT: There is certain phrasing around suicide in your book, including “giving up” and theorizing that Yu-jin could not have died by suicide because she was not “that fragile.” Were you trying to make a comment about how people view suicide here and/or cultural stigmatization?
SW: I’m glad you brought that up. I think definitely, although less conscious on my part. I remember when Anthony Bourdain died and people lost their minds. His whole show [was about] traveling and living life and enjoying [it]. I remember having conversations about him, and people couldn’t stop theorizing, right? It was like, well, it must have been this, or it could have been that, or how could it have [been] someone that [appeared] so happy and, again, like that [sense] of disbelief. And of course, someone that portrays themselves on TV is going to have a very different private life.
So yeah, I think I did. Especially when it comes to mental health, we still have that very caveman attitude of like, “Well, they seem fine. I saw them yesterday, and they were happy.” I think it’s really hard when you see those things with your own eyes and then have to kind of be willing to accept that there are probably other things that are going on.
KT: Would you say that Yu-jin and Min have that in common somewhat, being torn between two lives? Her two being her life as a good daughter and student versus wanting to be young and explore her interests, and Min struggling between his American identity and life with his Korean one.
SW: Definitely. The whole kind of wonderful tragicness of it all is that they both think the other one has it all, or they’re both jealous of the other one. Min perceives Yu-jin to be very singular. And she fits in, and she’s successful, and she doesn’t have to worry about the things that he does, but of course she is, and they just never talk about it. So, they both are kind of left in the dark in that respect.
I definitely wanted to play with that type of insider-outsider thing with characters, and even Misaki [Yu-jin’s roommate] is Japanese, but she’s in Korea. So, you’ve got different characters that are occupying spaces but then are kind of constantly torn between wondering which way to go and which kind of label to identify as.
KT: Although Min and Yu-jin had a casual relationship, he still is deeply crushed by her passing, even thinking to himself, “Where was she now? Was there a moon for her to look at?” Would you say there is a juxtaposition of conditional and unconditional love illustrated in your novel?
SW: I think that was honestly one of the hardest lines that I had to walk as I was writing the book because I think Min goes back and forth with how he feels about her death and his motivations for figuring out the truth. Are his motivations just so he can kind of feel like he’s done his due diligence so that he doesn’t have to feel guilt anymore? Or is his search more about just wanting to know if he didn’t have anything to do with it?
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I think that there are moments in the book where his quest for the truth is driven by [the feeling of] well, as long as you know, once I find out that I didn’t have anything to do with it, then I can move on from this. But I do think at some point he does realize that they did share something. So, maybe it’s more about acknowledging that than finding out the near-certain truth of what happened.
KT: The minister is really terrifying. His attempts to micromanage his daughter’s life are so unhealthy. Can you talk to me a bit about this character — is he complex, or is he just a bad guy?
SW: He had to be compelling enough to be perceived as a villain, I think, or at least be perceived as a potential antagonist by Min, someone that was capable of evil.
I also don’t want to give away too much of the book, but I feel like his motivations ultimately, I think, by the end you can rationalize them as coming from a place of love for his daughter. Which I think is the case with most parents, right? Even parents that push their kids in all sorts of insane ways. In some way, when you look at it, you can see that it’s coming from a place of wanting the best for their kids or wanting to protect them or wanting them to achieve success.
So, I didn’t want him to be one-dimensional. I wanted him to be a full character but also a character that was terrifying and kind of maniacal.
KT: What is one thing you’d like someone to take from your novel?
SW: An interest in Korean culture. I think that that’s probably one thing. Obviously, Korean culture has been kind of on the upswing with BTS and Parasite and all of that stuff. I’m hopeful that the book will bring maybe a little more nuance to some of those more broad discussions.
A lot of the book is about people questioning whether you can really know people. And I always think that’s a useful, philosophical thing to think about. Although I guess that question can get you into trouble if you start to think about it too much.
Katie Tamola is a freelance writer who grew up in Manhattan. Find her on Twitter @katietamola.
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