Several years back, Katie Kitamura encountered a headline that read something akin to: “A stranger informed me that I was his mother.” This headline captivated her, yet she never proceeded to read the article. She envisioned the narrative would provide some form of explanation – perhaps the writer had relinquished a child for adoption, for example. “I was far more intrigued by the lack of a definitive answer, instead seeking to explore the situation itself,” she confides. “I find the notion compelling that one could be entirely content in their life… and then an event occurs that could radically alter everything you comprehend about yourself and your position in the world.”
This headline inspired Kitamura’s fifth novel, Audition, an enchanting yet disconcerting tale that begins with a meeting between an unnamed actress and a charming college student, Xavier, who asserts that he is her son. As the plot unfolds, discerning the truth of their connection becomes increasingly complex – is he deceiving her, a fantasist, or is she losing her sanity?
Audition intentionally distinguishes itself from the recent wave of popular novels – such as Rachel Yoder’s Nightbitch or Claire Kilroy’s Soldier Sailor – that delve into the raw and profound experiences of early motherhood. Kitamura aimed to create a work that was “on the opposite end of the spectrum in terms of temperature,” a narrative more focused on maternal estrangement, the inevitable and vital separation that occurs as children mature and distance themselves from their parents. Her fiction has always been fascinated with the moments when a familiar person appears foreign to you, and she realized this often transpires between parents and their offspring. Her own children, aged 12 and eight, are “very surprising creatures,” she observes, marveling at how swiftly their relationship and her experience of motherhood evolves as they transition. Speaking with friends whose adult children have returned home, they express that it’s “like cohabiting with a stranger.” “You don’t recognize substantial parts of their personality or their approach to life,” she explains. “In conversations, it doesn’t manifest as a restoration of the old family unit. It feels more like a restructuring of the family.”
In Kitamura’s narratives, female leads are often so reserved that they are perceived as cold or aloof, yet she herself exudes a disarmingly warm and unpretentious demeanor. “Is it permissible for me to grab a cookie too?” she queries when we first meet at a cafe in Brooklyn, New York. Dressed elegantly in a relaxed suit and oversized sunglasses, she frequently chuckles, often at her own expense. At one moment, she recounts how a family acquaintance expressed enthusiasm about reading her book, only for Kitamura’s daughter to interject, “She doesn’t have a book coming out; I’ve never seen her write!” “And that,” Kitamura laughs, “is a remarkably accurate depiction of my life.”
“There’s something quite fascinating about parenthood, as it suddenly introduces another individual who defines you through their perception of you. That becomes, in many ways, your most significant identity, yet it feels somewhat alien. I am acutely aware that the person my children perceive me to be is not necessarily the person I feel myself to be – that fissure in existence, or experience, is what I aimed to delve into.” The protagonist in Audition grapples with reconciling her various selves, her overlapping roles in performance and reality, as an artist, a spouse, and potentially a mother. Kitamura understands that struggle. “At times, I identify as a teacher, a writer, a friend, a daughter, a wife, or a mother, and there’s an aspect of those roles that feels somewhat disjointed,” she admits.
She is wed to the British author Hari Kunzru. Kitamura notes that he writes more swiftly than she does, and he is adept at diving into work after the kids are asleep or squeezing in writing sessions of 45 minutes throughout the day. I inquire if that’s because of her familial role: is she the one shouldering the mental load of the household? But she clarifies that it’s not the case. “A friend once asked something along the lines of, ‘Who coordinates all the playdates and schedules the dentist appointments?’ – and Hari handles all that,” she chuckles. He also manages most of the cooking.
Do they ever experience jealousy toward each other’s success, I probe, now feeling more candid. No, she replies, since their writing styles are distinctly different: his works are expansive and multilayered, while hers tend to be more concise. Then she leans in and confides: “What does happen is if one of us gets an idea, we might say to the other, ‘That’s something for you to write about.’” Her tone is almost confessional, suggesting this behavior is contrary to what jealous individuals typically exhibit. They serve as each other’s primary editors, always reading through one another’s work before submission. In her daily life, Kitamura finds value in her husband’s role as the dishwasher unloader and buyer of laundry detergent, soon after reading his latest book and thinking: “This is intelligent! You’ve been carrying all this in your mind, too!”
In light of her family dynamics, it’s intriguing that her female characters in novels like Intimacies and A Separation are frequently married to writers, yet they themselves work as interpreters, translators, or actors – conduits for others’ narratives. Kitamura expresses discomfort with identifying fully as a writer, viewing her role as more aligned with interpreting and channeling others’ voices. The women she portrays often appear passive in their personal and professional lives, which she sees as authentic to real life. “Who among us possesses that much agency? I mean, what kind of fantastical existence are we leading? We entertain the illusion of agency,” she articulates. “I’m curious about passivity partly because it reflects the reality most of us endure. But I’m also intrigued by how passivity can equate to a form of action.” She contemplates the juncture where passivity morphs into complicity, as her characters frequently find themselves in ethically questionable situations: for example, employed by organizations they oppose or accepting inheritances that don’t belong to them.
Our meeting takes place in late February, and it seems as though every person I encounter today in New York is engaged in discussions about politics. Kitamura mentions she hasn’t been sleeping well. She never sleeps soundly during a Trump presidency, she quips. She teaches in New York University’s graduate creative writing program and mentions that the day following the 2024 elections, her students posed the question of fiction’s purpose: do they not bear an obligation to resist Trump more directly? She admits she had wrestled with that question herself back in 2016, but the enormity of the second Trump administration has clarified her vision of the crucial roles that writing, art, and education play. This is, she asserts, “partly because they are under such severe attack, but also because [Trump and his associates] aim to strip away everything I cherish. It’s never been clearer to me that writing truly matters. It’s not a trivial or pointless endeavor.”
On a more immediate level, she continues, writers are well-positioned to counter Trump’s assaults on language, the confusion and double-talk, the moral panic surrounding pronouns, or even renaming the Gulf of Mexico. More broadly, fiction acts as an antidote to authoritarianism. Since authoritarian regimes thrive on isolation, fiction fosters connection, she asserts. “At its core, writing involves opening yourself to another’s thoughts. The most intimate act I engage in daily is picking up a book and allowing myself to connect with another person’s mind.” And while the Trump administration may be imposing a singular lifestyle on society, fiction’s role is, as always, to remind individuals that there exist “other modes of existence.”
Before she aspired to be a writer, Kitamura dreamed of becoming a ballerina. Raised in California, her parents relocated from Japan for her father’s position as a university engineering professor. Throughout her schooling, she would leave class at noon to practice dance, initially planning a professional career in it. However, an injury curtailed her ambitions, which she describes as “the nail in the coffin,” revealing that the realization hit her that perhaps she wasn’t quite adept enough to make the cut. Having never envisioned attending college, she ultimately secured admission to Princeton University, where she studied English. Kitamura perceives parallels between dance and writing, noting both disciplines demand rigorous practice: “It’s about repeating the same actions continuously, revising and refining.” Additionally, it strikes me that while ballerinas excel at concealing the pain and physical exertion their craft demands, Kitamura’s writing exhibits similar restraint, contrasting streamlined, precise prose with tumultuous undercurrents.
In 1999, post-Princeton, Kitamura relocated to the UK to pursue a PhD in literature at the London Consortium. During the early 2000s, she worked part-time at the Institute of Contemporary Arts (where she met Kunzru) and found London’s cultural and artistic environment invigorating and inspiring. “People were undertaking remarkable risks with their creations, and that was captivating to witness,” she recalls. In 2009, she released her debut novel, The Longshot, centered around a mixed martial arts fighter preparing for a comeback match. Kitamura has maintained a keen interest in performance, with “both its pressures and its extraordinary freedoms.” In Audition, the actor posits that “a performance exists within the interstice between the work and the audience,” a belief Kitamura aligns with her views on literature. She aspired for Audition to be amenable to various, sometimes conflicting interpretations, allowing readers to draw their own conclusions, whether that the “son,” Xavier, is a fraud or that the actress is a “bad” mother.
Audition creates a loose trilogy alongside her two previous works, A Separation and Intimacies, novels that keenly observe the menacing, subtle, yet threatening shifts in power dynamics, moments where intimacy becomes hazardous or oppressive. “We tend to perceive intimacy as something desirable, something we actively seek in relationships,” she comments, “yet it can also be an imposition.” In Audition, the narrator is nearly pathologically sensitive to the power shifts within her family. The individual deemed most desirable wields the power, as the actress perceives. Economic factors also influence how the characters interact, often in unexpected manners: at times, they attempt to acquire power through financial means, only to discover that their generosity diminishes them, exposing their vulnerabilities.
Kitamura expresses both intrigue and discomfort regarding the instances when she has exerted authority over her children. “Those moments unsettle me greatly. It’s the simplest of things, like sending them to their room, losing your temper, or when they’re young and you lift them against their will. It’s a harsh manifestation of power over another individual, but it’s also just parenting,” she reflects, showcasing her capacity to recognize the unsettling aspects within mundane interactions. Simultaneously, she notes how parenthood can lead to feelings of powerlessness. Often, she feels incapable of shielding her children from the outside world.
Kitamura has already commenced work on her next novel, which she claims will diverge significantly from her earlier books. She pauses, noting, “Well, it’s not maximalist… the difference will be meaningful for me and perhaps no one else.” Eager to write, she juggles everything from her book tour to teaching and, of course, family responsibilities. Like many working parents, the limited time she has for herself and solitude could be a source of discontent, yet she has come to accept that “creativity emerges from the chaos of life.” “I must write from the center of my existence; that’s all I can do,” she asserts. “I’m not going to wait another decade for more time to materialize.”
