R A Dutil - An Interview

We recently read Everwild and you can find it HERE.

Open Shelf caught up with author R A Dutil to find out more. 

The prologue opens with a deeply personal loss despite its mythic scale. Was it always your intention that readers grieve for the husband losing his wife before they understood the larger fantasy context?

Grief was always the intention of the prologue, not only for its contribution to the mythology within the story, but as the event that sets everything else into motion. Everything that follows exists, directly or indirectly, because of this one moment. One moment that shaped the lives of countless people. But in that moment, no one saw it as anything more than the very human, and very real, feeling of loss.

Bay begins the novel trying to reconnect with art after years of putting her own needs aside. Why was creativity the part of herself she had lost, rather than some other aspect of her identity?

When someone is forced to carry more than their share, they need to shed pieces of themselves to make room for what’s necessary. Too often what we sacrifice is our creativity, our imagination, our art. In our world, creativity is seen as superfluous - a hobby - and is usually the first thing to go when the world demands all of us.

Much of Bay's character arc revolves around learning that survival and living are not the same thing. At what point did that theme become the emotional core of the novel?

Bay recognized from the beginning, on some level, that she was surviving, not living. She just didn’t want to admit it to herself. I feel like so many of us can relate to that feeling. We make sacrifices everyday that put our survival before actually living life and rationalize those choices. This theme became the emotional core once it was evident that her journey wasn’t about surviving the Everwild – she was always very good at survival–but that she was allowed to want more than simply surviving.

The relationship between Bay and Aiden feels loving, complicated, and sometimes painfully codependent. How did you approach writing a sibling relationship that could carry so much emotional weight without becoming sentimental?

Sometimes the greater problem in any relationship, whether familiar, friend, or romantic, is that you love too much. In doing so, you erase pieces of yourself and take away the other person’s autonomy at the same time. I wanted their bond to feel real, not idealized. People can truly love each other and still develop unhealthy patterns around that love.

Many fantasy novels begin with worldbuilding. Everwild begins with character. Was that a conscious decision from the outset?

Absolutely. I really wanted the reader to learn the world alongside Bay. She’s an outsider to the Anima and she knows nothing about spirits, magic, gods, or the war that’s been happening around humanity. Because Bay doesn’t know the rules, the reader never has to sit through an explanation of a world they’re supposed to already understand. Every discovery she makes matters to her personally before it matters to worldbuilding, because what she learns is integral to saving her brother.

The forests in Everwild often feel less like settings and more like characters. How did you develop a sense of place that feels simultaneously beautiful, ancient, and watchful?

I spent almost a decade living in the White Mountains of New Hampshire where Everwild is set. Living that close to deep woods instills a profound sense of wonder about nature into you. There are creaks, groans, strange noises, and it’s easy to think the forest is watching you. I drew from that experience to create the Everwild.

There is a strong sense that nature in this novel is neither good nor evil. What drew you to that moral framework?

Nature doesn’t operate according to human morality. There’s a lovely counterbalance in nature between life and death, beauty and danger, but nature reminds us that these things can co-exist. Oleanders are incredibly beautiful, but also deadly. Forest fires destroy acres of trees, but bring new life and renewal in their wake. Nature holds these seeming contradictions in balance without assigning morality to them, and I really wanted the Everwild to operate by those same rules.

Lykan is one of the most fascinating figures in the book because his anger is inseparable from his grief. Did he begin as an antagonist, or did he begin as a tragedy?

Oh, Lykan. His story has always read as a great tragedy to me. He is a man who lost his wife at the hands of his sons. So much of what he’s done since has been in response to that singular moment of profound loss. He’s the representation of the wounded masculine and what it becomes if it’s allowed to stagnate instead of heal.

Readers may find themselves sympathising with Lykan even when they disagree with him. How important was it that his worldview contain uncomfortable truths alongside obvious flaws?

Life is filled with uncomfortable truths and deeply flawed people. Lykan is no different. Given his divinity, those flaws carry much larger ramifications than yours or mine, but that doesn’t make him immune to making mistakes. It’s entirely possible to sympathize with a person and still disagree with their actions, as Bay likes to remind Lykan every chance she gets.

The confrontation between Bay and Lykan is as philosophical as it is physical. What were the challenges of sustaining tension in a scene driven as much by ideas as action?

I think any time you write a scene that focuses on competing philosophies instead of physical violence, the challenge becomes making the argument sound real, engaging, and honest. As writers, we don’t want our own biases and opinions to bleed into the conversation, and as readers, we don’t want a philosophy lecture. The tension should arise from their disagreement with each other and their reactions to each other. That’s what keeps the scene human.

Throughout the novel, fantasy functions as an emotional lens rather than simply a source of spectacle. Was that balance something you actively pursued while drafting?

Fantasy was the mechanism I chose from the beginning to show the outward manifestation of inner transformation. That’s why the shift between forms will sometimes appear violent, sometimes easy, sometimes forced, and sometimes vulnerable. Of course werewolves are exciting and violent, but I wanted to carry the theme of transformation beyond a typical werewolf story and tie it into the overarching journey each character undergoes.

Bay's journey is filled with physical transformations, but the most significant changes seem internal. Which transformation mattered most to you as the author?

For Bay, the transformation I cared most about was her finding herself again. She buried herself her entire life and this story really reflects the power of self-discovery and becoming what you were always meant to be.

One of the novel's recurring ideas is that people can be simultaneously wounded and strong. What drew you to that exploration of resilience?

If I can be vulnerable for a moment, my daughter was my inspiration for that theme. She has been through more in her young life than she deserved, and despite every hardship this world has thrown at her, she has come through it all. Being wounded and being strong aren’t opposites and strength doesn’t require the wound to heal. They can exist together, and I really wanted to show that pain isn’t the end of a journey but instead the crossroads that determine how the rest will play out.

The symbolism of roots, flowers, stars, decay, growth, and renewal recurs throughout the story. How early in the writing process did those images become part of the novel's visual language?

Some of it was there from the beginning. It wasn’t until the final edits that I realized how integral the connection between the characters’ arcs and nature’s cycles truly were–roots burying into the ground and holding things still, stars free to shine above the canopy, and flowers beginning to grow amidst decay. That’s when I really began to lean into the symbolism and tighten it throughout the novel.

The sequence in which Bay chooses to rise after believing she has failed everyone feels like the culmination of her emotional journey. Did that moment exist in your mind from the beginning, or did it emerge organically during writing?

The idea of that moment was the driving force of the story. Everything else was written around her choice to rise up despite the darkness surrounding her. A lot of the details around that scene changed as the story grew, but the theme was there from the very beginning.

Readers often talk about "earned" emotional moments. When writing scenes of grief, hope, or redemption, how do you judge whether a moment has truly been earned?

This part was tricky. It’s important to not just jump in, give a revelation, and have everything heal. That’s too clean. Real healing, just like real life, is messy. People return to bad habits, they slip into old mindsets, and things often feel the same for a long time. The character has to arrive at that emotional moment through what preceded it, and the moment can’t erase their wounds afterward.

The novel explores the tension between protection and freedom through multiple characters, particularly Bay and Aiden. Was that theme something you recognised early, or did it reveal itself as the story developed?

This was one of the major themes I wanted my story to carry not just in Book One, but throughout the series. Protection and freedom can become distorted by wounds in the divine masculine and feminine. Protection becomes smothering while freedom becomes escape. You can shield, or you can cage. You can run, or you can flee. You can nurture, or you can control. These are the healthy and wounded expressions of the masculine and feminine, and that tension has always been central to the series. 

Many fantasy stories ask whether a hero can save the world. Everwild seems more interested in whether a wounded person can save themselves. Was that distinction intentional?

I think Everwild deliberately avoids labeling anyone as a hero. Each side, each character, sees themselves as heroes in their own right, and saving themselves often directly intersects with saving the world - whatever that might mean to them, depending on the character.

The epilogue reframes much of what readers thought they understood and opens fascinating new questions about Bay, Aiden, and the wider mythology. How much of the larger Savage Species story did you already know before writing Book One?

I’m a planner, so I outlined the entire series before even writing draft one of Book One. Each book, each character arc, ties into the overarching themes I’ve established in the series. Now, there were a few surprises along the way, like characters who were supposed to be unnamed background characters in a single scene that suddenly became integral to the plot, but the larger plot itself never changed, nor did the deeper meaning behind it.

Looking back now, which scene best captures the heart of Everwild for you personally?

If we’re looking at  just Book One? I would say the Ring of Fire. Without giving too much away, it’s the first time Bay is forced to examine herself, her life, and her relationships. It’s a deeply unsettling chapter that touches upon the dark night of the soul and what that moment asks of you, all while she faces a physical transformation she is neither prepared for nor can explain.

If readers take away one idea, emotion, or question after finishing Everwild, what do you hope stays with them?

I hope they remember that they carry the wild with them always. It might be buried, it might be broken, it might be forgotten, but it’s always there, waiting for them to return.

Lykan believes suffering is humanity's only true teacher, while Bay continues to search for hope even in the darkest moments. Do you see the novel as taking a side in that debate, or inviting readers to wrestle with it themselves?

It was my intention that the novel didn’t take a side. I wanted the reader to wrestle with that very difficult question themselves, arguing alongside one character - or maybe even both.

In the end, what do you think Everwild is really about beneath the wolves, gods, magic, and mythology?

Everwild is about the transformative power that lives within us all. The one that calls us to be more than what the world asks of us. The one we ignore, or bury, or leave behind simply because it isn’t convenient to the world we surround ourselves with. It’s a reminder that if we’re brave enough to answer the call, our wolf will always be there, waiting for us to find it again.

And to finish, what can we expect from Everwolf?  And beyond…?

Everworlf is the culmination of Bay’s journey. The story answers the questions of who and what she really is, as well as who and what she decides to become. The war is growing nearer, her brother is still in danger, and her identity is fraying at the seams. And while Bay’s story reaches its peak, the rest of Savage Species is only getting bigger. The other shapeshifting factions–the dragons, the bears, the angels, the falcons, and the snakes – come into play and their dynamic brings new struggles, new consequences, and a new enemy made from an old alliance.

Thanks to R A Dutil for joining us to discuss Everwild and more!

You can read more about RA Dutil and her work HERE.