Nancy Johnson
Nancy Johnson is the author of the debut novel, The Kindest Lie, forthcoming from William Morrow/HarperCollins (Feb 2, 2021). The book centers on race, class, and family at the time of Obama’s election as president. Nancy manages brand communications at a large nonprofit and is a former Emmy-nominated, award-winning television journalist. Her work has been supported by Hurston/Wright Foundation, Tin House, Eckerd College Writers in Paradise, and Kimbilio Fiction. An excerpt of her novel received first runner-up recognition by the 2018 James Jones First Novel Fellowship. A native of Chicago’s South Side, Nancy lives in the city’s South Loop.
Twitter: @NancyJAuthor
Instagram: @NancyJAuthor
What period of history do you wish you knew more about?
Ever since I read the novel Johnny Tremain as a kid, I’ve been fascinated by the American Revolution as the colonists sought their independence from Great Britain. I even have a story idea percolating that partly takes place in 18th century colonial America. I’m excited to read more about that period in our history. What I find most intriguing is how new and fragile the experiment of America was then and still is today. There’s always been this rallying cry for freedom, yet that freedom has often existed outside the reach of many.
The musical, Hamilton, fed my continued interest in that era with its depiction of a budding nation and its founders being “young, scrappy, and hungry.” Throughout time, there have been iterations of the same, powerful story—that quest for self-determination. The hunger for freedom. The sense of possibility and hope for something better.
Is your go to comfort food sweet or savory? Is it something you make yourself? Does food inspire your writing?
I have an insatiable sweet tooth and I love stick-to-your-ribs food. My favorites are my Aunt Mary’s homemade yeast rolls and my mother’s chocolate layer cake (from scratch, never a box mix). In my novel, The Kindest Lie, many scenes take place in the kitchen where my characters dine on ham, fried chicken, candied yams, and fresh, sweet corn right off the cob.
It’s hard to hide anything at the dinner table. Everything we’re feeling bubbles up to the surface, heightened by the vulnerability of a family dinner, a time of unique intimacy when we’re bonding over food with the people who know us best, with all of our faults and frailties. In my novel, that’s where many of the secrets emerge and the lies reveal themselves. It’s also where my characters find their way back to each other again.
Vacation druthers… City or Rural destination? Why?
When I look out the window of my downtown Chicago apartment, I can see all the skyscrapers, the engine of great industry. My late father used to say, just look at all that muscle. But as much as I’m a city girl, I long for the open spaces of the rural countryside.
I’ll never forget a trip I took as a little girl to visit cousins in Corydon, an old coal town in Kentucky. For miles around, I saw nothing but farmland. As terrified as I was, I helped feed hogs and tend to chickens. Years later, I went to an old-fashioned pig pickin in North Carolina outside the home of one of my grad school classmates. I can still picture people walking down the hill, the sun at their backs. We spent the afternoon eating good barbecue, laughing, and breathing in country air. No one was in a rush and I miss that.
Have you ever experienced Imposter Syndrome?
All the time, even right now as I compose answers to these questions. I’m always waiting for someone to snatch off my mask and expose me. As children, we looked to our parents and teachers for approval. Later in life, it’s the gatekeepers of whatever industry we’re in. We’re always asking, Am I good enough?
As a debut author with a novel being published, I keep wondering if this was a fluke. I often compare myself to the great writers I most admire and can’t imagine seeing my novel next to theirs on bookshelves. The burden of self-doubt intensifies when you are part of a marginalized group.
Do I deserve to be in this room?
Do I deserve to be at this table?
Do I deserve to have a voice?
I have to keep reminding myself that the answer to those questions is always yes.
What piece of clothing tells the most interesting story about your life?
As a tall, gangly girl who got teased relentlessly in elementary school, I never felt beautiful. I tried to shrink to be less noticeable. I always admired people who claimed their beauty and seemed impenetrable to scrutiny until I figured out they just had better masks than I did. When I wrote a short essay for O, The Oprah Magazine a few years ago about how I’d found my figurative voice after a childhood bullying experience, the editors flew me to New York for a photo shoot. I didn’t have anything decent to wear, so I dropped a few hundred dollars on a dress, something I had never done before. Spending that kind of money on one article of clothing seemed foolish, but this was Oprah after all. I bought a classic, fuchsia Kate Spade dress only to find out that the photo spread would be in black-and-white.
The photographer played Katy Perry’s Roar and turned on “the Beyoncé fan” to give my hair that wind-blown look. When I stepped in front of the camera, I moved with the assured stride of a woman who belonged there. In that moment, in that dress, I felt beautiful.
