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Martha Anne Toll on Writing “Duet for One”

Martha Anne Toll

There’s a particular challenge that comes from writing a book in the world of another artistic discipline. Why? The usual challenges that apply to writing fiction apply, but so does the task of accurately depicting a very different creative word. In the case of Martha Anne Toll‘s new novel Duet for One, that world is classical music. Set in the wake of the death of an acclaimed pianist, Toll’s novel explores how her loved ones grieve and reflect on their own artistic triumphs and frustrations. I talked with Toll to learn more about book’s origin and the difficulties she faced while writing it.

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Unlearning the Law: Novel Lessons

Books

Unlearning the Law: Novel Lessons
by Martha Anne Toll, former lawyer, current novelist

Myriad lawyers transition from litigating to literature. I am no exception: I recently published my debut novel, THREE MUSES. Before that, I attended law school, practiced law, and worked for many years in social justice and the nonprofit world. Each of those jobs involved intensive writing where I had to learn how to present arguments clearly on the page, and to advocate for strategy and policy positions. I sharpened my research and analytic skills as I tried to present the incontrovertible. However, as I was becoming a novelist, I realized I had to unlearn the writing practices I found most useful in my time in the corporate and non-profit world.  I have thus identified three rules in fiction that may come in handy for others following a similar path: 

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Sunday Stories: “Deep Blue”

Ballet

Deep Blue
by Martha Anne Toll

1963. Katya detoured to St. Patrick’s Cathedral before ballet company class. Not to attend Mass—she didn’t need to mouth words and hymns that punctuated her childhood—but for sanctuary and anonymity.    

Genuflecting before she started down the great center aisle, Katya took a pew on the left toward the altar, where she could avoid Fifth Avenue’s street noise and bathe in the rainbow of colors refracted through rows of stained-glass windows. She felt alone in the cavernous space, less a child of her parents than an autonomous woman. St. Patrick’s bore no resemblance to the small parish church of her childhood. It wasn’t Mama that Katya recalled from church, it was Mama’s absence, her early death, as much a part Sundays as the colorless windows over the pews.

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