The Story Behind The Mercy of Thin Air

The Mercy of Thin Air

The Story Behind the Story, 15 Years
After Publication

Every time I’m asked how I came up with the idea for The Mercy of Thin Air, I tell the same story. At my first real job out of college, I managed a project office for a team of 20 consultants, all men. This job required everything from keeping an endless supply of Post-it Notes in stock to having their PowerPoint presentations finished in time for their endless meetings. One day, a team member pestered me about a document’s deadline. I turned to him and said, “If you don’t stop bugging me, when I die, I’m going to come back and poltergeist you.” After he scampered off, I paused. What would it be like to be a ghost and stick around to play tricks on people?

Five years later, January 1999, I took an undergraduate short story writing class and had to come up with something for my first assignment. That comment floated up from memory—and stalled. I’d known since I was eight that I wanted to be a writer and had written plenty of bad poetry and decent fiction in high school. After I graduated from college, I tried to transform a fairy tale I’d written for a class assignment into a novel, but I was clueless about what I was doing. In my late 20s, sitting in that classroom with students about a decade younger, I was well out of practice in the craft.

Driving home from work one afternoon, I stopped at a traffic light and waited for it to change. Out of nowhere—and very clearly—I heard, “My name is Raziela.” And instantaneously, I knew/understood/intuited she was blonde, a flapper, wanted to be a doctor, and dead. So, there was the ghost, who, having declared herself, allowed the short story to take shape during the next few weeks. The work required me to delve back into my childhood interest in the paranormal, specifically to research Spiritualism, and do some digging on the 1920s. (The story would be titled “Six Senses.” Later that same year, I’d see the movie The Sixth Sense.)

I had never taken a workshop class before. I was anxious about having strangers and a teacher critique the work right in front of me. The day my story was up for discussion, I noticed there was a guest in the room, a woman older than I was. From the way they interacted with each other, I assumed she was one of Mr. Bennett’s colleagues. At some point, he looked at her, then they looked at me, and I felt as if there had been some conversation about me. When the workshop began, my classmates had tentative comments. As Mr. Bennett asked questions to tease out more remarks, I sensed that I hadn’t done as good of a job as I’d hoped on that first draft. Mr. Bennett seemed uncertain about the story’s speculative fiction premise—a ghost telling her own tale. But then, after the questions were over, he leaned back and said even though he typically didn’t like stories outside of realism, this one had him convinced.

Whatever relief lingered through the rest of the workshop turned to trepidation when he called me up to his desk after class. He asked if I was in the university’s MFA (master of fine arts) program. No, I wasn’t; I worked in a research office on Louisiana State University’s campus and was just taking the class to learn. I had no plans to enter graduate school.

“This is a novel, isn’t it?” he said more than asked.

I’d discover Jim Bennett had a penetrating psychic ability. This was my first glimpse of it. “Yes, I think it is,” I said. In fact, as I’d written the short story, I knew it wanted to be more than it was.

After he handed me the copy with his handwritten comments, I waited to read them until I was standing outside my office building.

Professor’s comment on the short story’s first draft. “Ronlyn, This is quite a remarkable piece of work. What astonishes me is the diction. The language of the time is stunningly reproduced here. The ultimate compliment I can offer is to confess that I suspected it was plagiarized. But that would be too depressing to accept. It’s much more pleasant to accept that it represents your work and a very obviously talented young writer. We’ll talk more in class. I’m at a loss for words. It’s that good.”

Deja-vu. Fifteen years earlier, as a high school sophomore, I had to get permission to take an upper-level creative writing class. Ms. Anderson was a substitute for the teacher who was on medical leave. A few weeks into the term, a man walked in during class. While we worked on an assignment, Ms. Anderson spoke with him at her desk. There was a moment when they both looked at me, and I tucked my head down at the attention. Later, I learned Mr. Begnaud had stopped by to check in about the class he’d soon return to. He’d been reading our assignments as well and suspected I’d plagiarized a short story. Ms. Anderson said I had not; she watched me write it at my desk.

Having a teacher’s validation mattered, confirming I had the talent I thought I did, which would require practice, practice, practice.

The summer after Mr. Bennett’s class, I worked on expanding “Six Senses” the short story into a novel. Mary McMyne, one of my classmates (who would become one of my dearest-ever friends and a stunning poet, fiction writer, and teacher), teamed up with me to form our own little writers’ group. She was an undergraduate student. We both took the same novel writing course in Spring 2000.     

One morning, weeks prior to that semester, I literally sat up in bed and knew I had to get into a MFA program. An inconvenient revelation considering I had a decent job and a content life. My partner, Todd, and I had bought a house only two years earlier. I didn’t really want to move. I applied to LSU’s program, telling myself if I didn’t get in, maybe I’d apply elsewhere.

In Fall 2000, I entered my first year of LSU’s three-year program. For the first two years, I could only dabble with the novel-in-progress. Literature courses, craft classes, and workshops required most of my focus, but it all served to teach me more about the craft of writing. Jim Bennett dazzled me with his psychic powers and shared advice I now pass on to my author clients. From Moira Crone, I learned the importance of form; Rodger Kamenetz, the core principles of writing nonfiction; David Madden, how the subtle elements of fiction can transform a story; and Rick Blackwood, how screenwriting can restructure a fiction writer’s brain. James Wilcox joined the faculty my sophomore year. A former editor at New York publishing houses and a renowned novelist, this Jim was the one I selected as my thesis adviser.

Early in 2002, after Jim Wilcox read a rough partial draft, he asked a simple question that pushed me in a new direction. “What does Razi think she is?” I couldn’t answer him. I knew Razi was a ghost who would never call herself one. She was an empiricist, someone who believed in the tenets of science and had little tolerance for religion or spirituality. As a child, Razi laughed at her grandmother’s Spiritualist beliefs. That she found herself between life and whatever came next—without a body but able to recall every memory of her breathing life—defied explanation.

On and off during the next year, I researched quantum physics to understand how Razi might rationalize her circumstances. Although little scientific information ended up in the novel’s final draft, studying the subject gave me insight not only into her but also my creative process. Characters do not reveal everything explicitly. The way to understand them requires a willingness to delve into what seems tangential to discover what is essential about their experiences, motivations, or perspectives.

But there’s also a practical side to this—the due diligence of understanding their world or whatever parallels it. Because some of the novel was set in the 1920s in New Orleans, I had to understand the social mores, language, and history of that time period and the city. I read as many contemporary Southern women authors as I could to see if I was factually representing and fictionally capturing that era. I didn’t dig too far into the paranormal because I wanted Razi, more than research, to reveal what the between realm was like.

A few of the books I read for research.

As the novel took shape, I grappled with doubts (this was endless) about my ability to write this particular book and whether I’d be able to sell it once it was done. In the summer of 2002, I sat on my sofa eating breakfast and watched an interview with Alice Sebold, the author of The Lovely Bones. I choked on my Cheerios—oh no, her novel had a dead narrator, too. But in that moment, I made a decision to NOT read the book until I was finished with my own. I didn’t want to taint my process or discourage myself even more. (Years later, I saw how different they are. Alice Sebold happened to be at the start of a collective unconscious zeitgeist going on—in this case, the afterlife or something like it. Margot Livesey had a novel in late 2002; Glen Duncan in 2004; Connie May Fowler in early 2005; and there were several others.)

I persevered. November 2002, I finished the first full draft—three years and a few months after I started the novel itself. The nonlinear structure of moving among Razi’s past to the present to her time between was firmly set, and that would not change. Friends who read the early pages pushed me to figure out the holes in the relationships and what was motivating Razi especially. Given what I knew about practical Razi, it was a complete surprise that her voice came through with such poetry and lyricism. Many readers want to credit me alone for what they’ve called beautiful writing, but I write what I hear, and I heard her loud and clear.

Draft 2 was completed in late January 2003 in time to submit it to my thesis committee. In mid-February, I defended the thesis—titled Between, thanks to Mary—and within in few weeks started to contact literary agents. This was way too soon. The novel really wasn’t done. There were still some big gaps in how the story fit together and little threads that didn’t tie up. I didn’t know the people of the book well enough, and that impacted the plot. Lionel, one of Razi’s friends between, vexed me because I couldn’t figure out why he was in the story but wouldn’t let me cut him.

With comments in mind from my committee and marvelous friends (aforementioned Mary, Tameka Cage Conley, Ben Lanier-Nabors, Nolde Alexius, Jennifer Nuernberg, Robin Becker, Victoria Brockmeier, Katy Powell, and Paulette Guerin), I delved into Draft 3. What they said pushed me to understand the characters better, which required patience I didn’t have. In the previous months, I had learned I could neither manipulate them nor make choices for them. They were sovereign beings. If I didn’t know something about the story, that usually meant the story wasn’t ready to tell me or I wasn’t ready to hear it. Answers did come in their own time. It was a spiral process, going over certain moments or circumstances over and over again. Also, another round of research kicked off, which is how I stumbled on the Buddhist concepts of the bardo—a state between death and whatever is next—and that all time is Now. When I read through my notebook from this period, I noticed the intimacy I had with several people of the novel, knowing what made them tick, what wounds they carried. (By now, I was in love with Andrew, too.) I finished this draft in late July.

By late August 2003, I heard from all the agents I’d queried. The ones who read the manuscript either rejected it outright or told me they’d take another look if I seriously revised it. So, I went back to it. Up to this point, I’d gone through writing binges of three or four days a week, several weeks in a row, six, eight, or more hours a day. But this round involved sessions that stretched 10, 12, 16 hours long. I wasn’t going to break the momentum because the energy was so focused.

This is what I wrote in my journal Thursday, December 4, 2003: “Somewhere around two a.m. Monday morning, I finished the fourth draft of BETWEEN. Well, by Friday evening, it was no longer that. For weeks it hadn’t been—the focus had changed too much—and then as I was writing a scene about Andrew (he thought the bodies of constellations would fall from the sky), I did a double take at ‘the mercy of thin air.’ I got very agitated—something stirred deeply in me—and I KNEW this was the title.”

That was the title—and the unifying concept that held the novel together on an intuitive level, which had eluded me for years. I paced my office for several minutes to settle down and shake off the chills. I knew deep down I was finally done. Readers likely have their own interpretations, but for me, the mercy of thin air is about how fragile we are as physical and spiritual beings. Without air, our bodies die. Without the ether—an antiquated postulate in physics but I like the archaic concept—there’s nothing beyond us. The presence of both, of either, is merciful to us all. 

My agent search resumed with simultaneous submissions to more than 30 agents. Rejections came in self-addressed stamped envelopes, which I knew by the feel of them when they appeared in my mailbox. Read requests came by email. I received one read request for every 10 queries. Not bad. In early spring 2004, a top agent on my long-shot list asked to read the first 100 pages. Anyone who’s dealt with a steady stream of rejection knows how grueling that is and what elation comes with a nibble. The buoyancy didn’t last long.

Within a couple of weeks, the agent emailed and said he recognized I had talent but the novel lacked the “element of a thriller” and “strong element of young adult love” that was present in The Lovely Bones. So, he passed—and I hit the wall of exhausted despair.

Example of a literary agent’s form rejection letter.

Several weeks passed before I could start another query round. The personal rejections from those who read partial or full manuscripts had no common thread about what they didn’t like. Three or four said they’d take another look if I seriously revised the book. Although I was frustrated, I knew what I had. The Mercy of Thin Air was my best work. It was done, done, done. I was determined to hold out for someone who saw it as I did.

That July, I allowed an agent an exclusive read, which means I wouldn’t share the manuscript with other agents. Days later received another read request. I had no choice but to put that agency off, explaining the circumstances. The exclusive agent missed her deadline to reply. After I sent a respectful email withdrawing the exclusivity, I submitted the full manuscript to the waiting agent. I had queried her in my last round after learning she’d represented a book about the Lily Dale, New York Spiritualist community. A resonant match.

Sixty queries had gone out between 2003 and now. I’d had nine reads. Jandy Nelson was number 10. If this last round brought all rejections again, I’d have to send out another batch.

This time was different. Jandy emailed every few days to keep me posted as she read. The messages were brief but encouraging. I didn’t want to get my hopes up.

In late August, she emailed to say she’d finished the book, “sobbing at my desk to the last page last night,” and wanted to represent me.

We talked the next day. We had an instant rapport. She understood my novel as it was, and her editorial suggestions were meant to enhance what was already there. I spent a couple of weeks on minor revisions. There were changes to a few paragraphs here and there. Jandy told me to rewrite Razi’s last letter to Andrew because the current one was too glib. She was right. I added a section about Razi’s Uncle Roger, who died in World War I, that she told me to scrap. She was right about that, too. The most significant addition, which appears in the published book, happened after I had coffee with my friend Vickie, who’d read Draft 3. I sensed there was a missing piece about a little girl who showed up at the séance. As Vickie and I talked about it, a fully formed image entered my mind’s eye. I grabbed Vickie’s arm, goosebumps suddenly covered both of us (I could see them), and I said, “Razi goes to the orphanage!” (Readers will remember when Razi takes Donna to a dying child’s bedside.)

By mid-October 2004, Jandy and I wrapped up final edits. At the end of the month, Jandy sent out pitch letters and manuscripts in two waves, on a Thursday and Friday, to 18 editors. She called each one personally and told them the book was on the way via FedEx. She hoped some of the editors would read it over the weekend.

Before lunchtime on Monday, November 1, Jandy got two calls. House #1’s editor was two-thirds through her read and loving it. The other was an associate editor at House #2 Jandy had spoken to the week before. The editor had pleaded to get the manuscript directly rather than the executive editor, which is what Jandy did. At this point, Jandy called every editor to say there was interest. By Wednesday, six rejections had come in. House #2 made a good offer Jandy didn’t think was high enough, so she asked for more. She made another round of calls to say an offer was on the table. That day, everything was so surreal I could barely match a pile of clean socks.

Thursday, Jandy knew House #1 wanted time through the weekend to consider the book and now House #3 was in the mix. That afternoon, House #2 increased their offer—intended as a preempt—and wanted an answer that day. When Jandy called me with the news, I was in the middle of leading a meeting with a client. There was no way I could make a decision right then, especially not without speaking to the editor first. I begged her to buy me more time. By that night, 10 of the 18 editors had declined. Jandy said we still might get more offers and could consider an auction, or I could accept the preempt, which meant the novel was off the table and no other offers could be considered.

Friday morning, November 5, House #2’s editor called me. Sarah Branham and I talked for an hour about authors we both liked, what she thought of The Mercy of Thin Air, and what the house’s plans were for it. When I got off the phone, I had a good feeling about her. I called Jandy to tell her to finish the last bit of negotiation. My friends Melissa and Colleen, who’d planned to visit that afternoon, showed up as scheduled. I was in a daze. Everything had moved so fast. When Jandy called to say what the final offer was, I told her to accept it. I think I told my friends, “I just sold my book.” Half an hour later, Jandy called one last time to say it was done, and the folks at Atria Books were “screaming and crying” over the phone when they closed the deal. A very good advance for that one book and world rights signed over for it, meaning Atria had the option to sell the book to other countries.

What happened for The Mercy of Thin Air is rare. Selling a book in one week is not typical at all. Depending on the book and the agent’s strategy, a manuscript might be sent out to one or a few editors at a time. Then, it could take a few months to more than a year to sell the book, if it sells. Jandy believed my novel had a special energy about it. She had decided to make a big push right away. And wow, did it pay off.

In December, Sarah send her editorial letter noting what she thought needed to be trimmed, explained better, or added. It took only a few days to address the changes because the tweaks were minimal. At the end of the month, Mercy sold at auction to a German publisher.

In late January 2005, Sarah contacted me to say the publisher herself and the executive editor planned to visit some of their authors who lived in the South. They wanted to meet me on a particular day, Tuesday, February 8. Mardi Gras Day—in New Orleans. Although I was thrilled about this, I asked if we could schedule another day or meet where I lived because it would be impossible to drive into New Orleans. There was no way around it, so I suggested we have a meeting in the airport, which I could get to and from with no problem.

What happened instead was that I met them at the airport on Monday and took a hired car with them to the hotel where we’d have dinner and spend the night. How they managed to get three hotel rooms booked at the peak of Mardi Gras season, I’ll never know. As expected, the roads leading to the French Quarter were almost impenetrable. The driver navigated through a maze of back streets and dropped us off.

Of course, I understood this wasn’t just a friendly visit. My publisher and executive editor intended to see for themselves what I was like, how I handled myself, who exactly they’d invested in. But we hit it off immediately and had a long, friendly dinner. My publisher announced she’d scored tickets to a party on Bourbon Street for the next day. Mardi Gras ground zero, which we agree to go to together.

My familiarity with New Orleans paid off. I managed to get us to the party with only a glance or two at a map. I’d always said the only way I’d go to Mardi Gras in the city was if I could watch from a balcony. That’s exactly where we ended up. There was plenty of alcohol and strands upon strands of beads to cast down to the revelers. My executive editor could not believe the flagrant nudity, but my publisher seemed nonchalant. She leaned against the balcony railing, tossing beads to passersby, and remarked, “You know, in life, you want to be a thrower.”

Bienville at Bourbon Street, New Orleans Mardi Gras, 2005.

In South Louisiana, the holidays of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Mardi Gras Day are either cold or warm, rainy or dry. That day was hot and muggy, which made the beer-spattered streets especially sour. As I watched the people stream by under the balcony, I felt an undertow of uneasiness, something ominous I couldn’t put my finger on. At the time, I thought I was just anxious some circumstance would burst the bubble of my fondest dream come true. Months later, I’d know why I felt that way.

Whatever test I’d been given during the visit, I must have passed, and whatever early responses my house received for the book, they must have felt encouraged, because I found out soon after they were moving up Mercy’s publication date to September 13, 2005. (From a book’s acceptance to its publication, there’s usually a 12- to 18-month gap.)

The next few months, everything moved quickly.

January 2004. Mercy sold to Italy.

February. I submitted my copyedits on the final manuscript. The UK joined the list of foreign deals.

March. The book sold to Sweden. The author photo I’d taken locally, on a freezing cold day, didn’t match the image my house was trying to convey. So, my editor flew me out to New York for a shoot with a photographer who’d done portraits of Usher and Hillary Clinton and other well-known people. Three things made that experience less intimidating. Sarah stayed with me the whole day. Susan gave me two shots of limoncello before we started the shoot. Susan’s two beautiful Ocicats roamed the studio and left golden fur on my clothes.

I contend the photo on the left captures who I am at essence. The photo on the right is wonderful but depicts what I look like after two hours of hair and makeup in flattering light. Credits: David Humphreys; Susan Shacter.

April. The Netherlands bought the rights. Page proofs for the final layout were complete. The cover’s first draft arrived in the mail so I could get the full effect. I adored all the details—the locket, the water—but the idea was scrapped soon after. I’ve always suspected the cover was rejected because of the bias against showing a character’s image and a certain big box bookstore chain weighed in that they’d buy more copies with a different book jacket.

May. Advance reading copies (ARCs) went out to reviewers, booksellers, and industry big mouths. Because the book jacket wasn’t finalized, my official author photo ended up on the ARC’s front. (Sidebar: I didn’t get to choose what author photo I wanted. My house selected it from the proofs, but that shot was the best of several good possibilities.) The cover’s second draft arrived as a JPEG. In the midst of a meltdown, I called Jandy to tell her how much I despised it. She agreed, Sarah admitted she’d been very reluctant about it, and that option was tossed aside.

June. Poland, Norway, China, and Japan made deals for the rights. Plans for a cross-country tour and radio interview schedule began to firm up. The cover’s third draft was complete, and everyone agreed it was a fitting image. Anna Dorfman, the cover designer, captured the novel’s spirit—no pun intended. (Read a blog post from the cover’s model, Veronica Varlow.)

Left, first draft of The Mercy of Thin Air’s cover. Center, second draft. Right, third and final draft.

July to late August. Dozens of emails and several phone calls.

And then, as it was every summer, a storm started to form in the Gulf of Mexico. Hurricane season brought a low hum of anxiety, and the growing storm ramped it up a bit. Meanwhile, finished hardcover copies of Mercy were on their way to bookstores. Todd drove me to our local Barnes & Noble without telling why, led me past the front tables, and pointed up to the second floor. Between the up and down escalators was a tower of copies of my book, a sight so surreal I’m not sure it ever fully registered in my heart. Those last days of August, tour plans and interviews were finalized, and RSVPs arrived for the novel’s official launch event on September 18.

On August 28, we watched Hurricane Katrina spiral across the gulf, headed toward New Orleans. We lived west of the storm and didn’t get the worst of the wind and rain but did lose power in the early morning of August 29—the day it made a second landfall and New Orleans’s levees failed. Katrina decimated southeast Louisiana and southwest Mississippi.

The Mercy of Thin Air was set to debut on September 13. All I could think about was the destruction, the people who died, and the people left to rebuild where that was even possible. For several days, my best friend, her fiancé, her mother, and his friend stayed with us after leaving the city just before the roads were shut down. I did publicity interviews on our landline, when we could get service, and tried to shut out the outer chaos.

How odd it was to go on a tour with a book about ghosts in New Orleans. There was no getting away from what happened or that I was from Louisiana. Everywhere I went, I had to talk about the hurricane and explain to strangers why so many people couldn’t and didn’t leave. Those three weeks were bittersweet and exhilarating and exhausting. I visited more than 100 bookstores in 15 cities, pushing through on countless cups of coffee, pure adrenaline, and the genuine friendliness I felt from almost everyone I met.

I considered cancelling my official book launch because it seemed inappropriate to celebrate when so many people were in pain. A friend encouraged me stick to the plans and give folks something good to focus on. Given the circumstances, I didn’t expect many people to come, but the place was packed with immediate family and local friends.

My hometown book event was in early November, and it was my favorite of them all. It was standing-room only for old friends and extended family. Almost every one of the 10 elementary, middle, and high school teachers named in Mercy’s acknowledgments attended. This included Mrs. Dorothy Allen, my third grade teacher, who was the first educator to encourage my writing, and Mr. Donald Begnaud, my high school creative writing teacher.

The first months after Mercy released, I received emails from readers across the country. This was before social media and short sentences full of acronyms. The messages were profound and heartfelt, often sharing personal stories of deep grief and deep loves. It was truly humbling to know how much Razi, Andrew, and the rest of them had touched people. To this day, one of the messages that stands out came from someone in Illinois: “I am 200lb tattooed ex-biker turned bookstore manager that has no spiritual beliefs other than I believe in love. Your book made me cry so, it passed my test.”

That fall, the novel sold to Portugal. The last foreign deal would come in January 2006, to France, which I was told was quite the coup.

In Spring 2006, I received an email from a publicist with my Italian publisher. They wanted to invite me to Milan for the book’s launch. Flabbergasted, I contacted Sarah to see what she had to say. She told me she’d heard they were considering it but didn’t tell me because it wasn’t official. Well, it was then. Todd decided to join me. In late May, we flew to Milan. He walked the streets around the fashion district during the two days I sat with a translator doing interview after interview. Then for a few days, together we ate and ate and ate and walked and walked and walked.

Left to right, my Italian publicist, editor, publisher, me, and my partner, now husband.

When I was in graduate school, my screenwriting professor Rick Blackwood told us, “The world is awash in talent. What you need is luck.” (I might be paraphrasing, but that was the gist.) These words were branded on the back of my mind. I didn’t doubt that I wrote a remarkable novel, but once it was out of my hands, I became win-the-lottery lucky. Although I wish Mercy weren’t closely compared to The Lovely Bones because all that’s in common is a dead narrator, the fact that The Lovely Bones came first and was commercially successful made it easier to find a publisher for my book. My publishing house dedicated a great deal of time and money for my debut’s publicity and marketing, which doesn’t happen for most titles. Their foreign rights department went above and beyond to sell it to several countries. I had a smart, nurturing champion of an agent in Jandy, and an intelligent, insightful, supportive editor in Sarah.

Since Mercy’s release, I’ve visited hundreds of bookstores, book clubs, and classrooms. The novel has been taught in high school and college literature courses. Now and then, I still receive messages from folks who’ve read it for the first time, and the umpteenth. They tell me the story carried them through loss and love and everything in between.

Twenty-five years ago, when I sat in that corporate office pondering poltergeists, my dream was to be a published writer. I hoped my work would be read, but I never expected my first novel to receive the appreciation, even love, that Mercy has.

Thank you, one and all, for giving this novel a charmed, happy life.