Susan Sisko Carter

Susan Sisko Carter has written for some of the major producers in television, and her teleplays have been included on the Writers Guild of America’s list of 101 best-written TV series. She has published essays in Shondaland, LA Weekly, and HuffPost. She is an internationally acclaimed singer/songwriter. Susan’s recordings include albums for Verve and Epic. She has recently completed a new composition, “Sipping Wine in Paris,” as a companion piece to The Lyric Hotel, her debut novel. Susan lives in Los Angeles – but spends as much time as possible in Paris.

Instagram: @susansiskocarter/

Facebook: @iamnowsusansiskocarter

Twitter/X: @SiskoCarter

Do you have another artistic outlet in addition to your writing? Do you sew? Paint? Draw? Knit? Dance?

Besides being an author and screenwriter, I am a singer/songwriter. I started recording for major labels when I was thirteen. I wrote my new single, “Sipping Wine in Paris,” as a companion piece to my novel. It will be released the same day as The Lyric Hotel. Although

my novel predominately takes place in West Hollywood, part of the book takes place in Paris. And both women, in the song and the book, are staying in hotels that stir a palpable longing. I wanted to convey that longing in the opening lyrics to “Sipping Wine in Paris.”

I’m the kind of woman

Who sings in the key of

The buzz of the bathroom light

In my hotel room at night.

I have imagined the heroine of my novel––Jeanette––singing in the key of the buzz of the bathroom light in her junior suite at the Lyric Hotel. And the man that the woman meets in my song could easily have ended up in my novel.

What piece of clothing tells the most interesting story about your life?

I tend to get attached to certain items of clothing that I associate with exhilarating experiences I’ve had while wearing them. It’s as if their history has settled into the fabric. And with each wearing, new experience embellishes the history. I purchased a scarf in Paris that was way too expensive for me since I didn’t wear scarves. But this scarf had seduced me from behind the window of a boutique, the size of a rich woman’s closet––a lush, dark violet veil of a scarf, patterned with violet flowers, that connoted romance and mystery. I walked out of the Paris boutique, wearing that too-expensive scarf, feeling more alluring than when I’d entered the shop. I’d spent every euro in my purse on the scarf. When I stopped off at a bank’s cash machine for money, my bank card got stuck in the machine. A receipt informed me that I’d withdrawn 300 euros––yet I’d received no cash. The manager of the bank explained that it would take days to find out if the euros had been deducted from my account. I told him, in my primitive French, that I had spent too much money on my new scarf. He looked at the scarf that adorned my denim jacket and said, “It’s wonderful.” Then he said something in French, so lovely, yet suggestive, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Years later, the bank manager’s words found their way into my novel. And the scarf? I am wearing that very scarf in the photo on the back cover of The Lyric Hotel.

Is there a genre of music that influences your writing/thinking? Do you listen to music while you write?

I have eclectic taste in music. I used to be a DJ. I often listen to music that matches the tone of what I’m writing. Or what I think my characters would listen to. For The Lyric Hotel, I listened to a lot of female singers, including Lianne La Havas, Shelby Lynne, Brandi Carlyle, Erykah Badu, Laura Nyro; Helen Merrill, Shirley Horn. But when I am putting words to paper (or screen), it’s difficult to write my own words while listening to someone else’s. So, I usually listen to instrumental music. When I was just beginning my book, I listened to the music of Bang on a Can, especially Terry Riley’s “In C.” Its driving repetitiveness was like a mantra: YOU CAN WRITE THIS BOOK! And (to quote the brilliant author Lawrence Block):

“YOU KNOW ENOUGH TO WRITE WELL!”

The music changed with the drafts. In later drafts, I listened to Sonny Rollins, Dexter Gordon, and a lot of Miles Davis, especially his soundtrack to Ascenseur pour l’échafaud. And Sketches of Spain. Quincy Jones’s “Invitation,” a track of sweeping emotion that ends with propulsive brass, sounding as if the musicians were playing on a locomotive, was a good energy for writing. I knew that the heroine of my book liked to infuse herself with the passion of a good tango, so I listened to Astor Piazzolla. The tender beauty of Rob Schwimmer’s albums, Heart of Hearing and Beyond the Sky, took me places I needed to go to in The Lyric Hotel.

Are there particular films that have influenced your writing?

Nora Ephron’s When Harry Met Sally. (C’mon Harry! C’mon Sally! We’re rooting for you— you’re made for each other!) Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Translation. The authenticity of those two characters and the tone, where sadness gives way to humor that allows sadness to sneak back in, again without a wristband––I’m a sucker for that! And, oh, la la––François Truffaut. Truffaut’s The Woman Next Door (La Femme d’à côté). As Jeanette says in my novel: “Best film about passion—ever.”

What’s your favorite comic strip or graphic novel?

Well, three come to mind: Sir Alfred by Tim Hensley, a satiric comic book about Alfred Hitchcock. That’s right, you heard me. I was delighted when I discovered the French version of Sir Alfred in Paris. American Splendor by Harvey Pekar. His comics resemble short stories. Real slice-of-life stuff from the streets of Cleveland. I liked Harvey’s work so much. I wrote a piece about him in HuffPo. And then there’s––Little Lulu. Little Lulu was the first feminist! The comic was smartly written. I have a confession: I upped the price of vintage Little Lulu comics in Los Angeles. 

Years ago, I stumbled upon boxes of them at a dusty old bookstore on Hollywood Boulevard, which specialized in first editions. In an almost-secret upstairs room, old comics were hidden away in boxes. I filed through box after box—until I hit comic-book gold. I bought every Little Lulu for a nickel each. I wiped the city out of its supply of Little Lulu comics.