Fresh Air - ‘The God of the Woods’ Author Liz Moore

Episode Date: January 12, 2026

Moore says writing is mostly labor, but "2% of the time, usually at the very beginning of a book and the very end of a book, it feels like flying." She's also the author of ‘Long Bright River,’ which was adapted into a series on Peacock starring Amanda Seyfried. Her latest bestseller, ‘The God of the Woods’ centers on a missing girl at a summer camp in the Adirondacks. Moore spoke with contributor Dave Davies about her writing process and adapting her work for TV. Also, John Powers reviews the thriller series ‘Hijack’ and ‘The Night Manager,’ both of which are returning for their second seasons.Learn more about sponsor message choices: podcastchoices.com/adchoicesNPR Privacy Policy

This is Fresh Air. I'm Dave Davies. Our guest today, writer Liz Moore, is on something of a role. Her last two novels were national bestsellers. One, Long Bright River, a thriller about a policewoman patrolling a troubled Philadelphia neighborhood where her drug-using sister is a sex worker, was made into an eight-part TV series on Peacock. Moore was an executive producer, co-creator, and co-writer of the series, and its star, Amanda Seifred, has earned a Golden Globe nomination for her performance. Moore's latest bestseller, The God of the Woods, is set in a remote children's camp in the Adirondacks, where a young camper goes mysteriously missing. Our book critic Maureen Corrigan said when she read it, quote, I was so thoroughly submerged in a rich fictional world that for

hours I barely came up for air. Netflix has announced it will produce a limited TV series based on the God of the Woods. Moore's novels show quite a range of subjects. The character in an earlier novel titled Heft is a 450-pound shut-in in Brooklyn who longs for human connection. Liz Moore won the 2014 Rome Prize in Literature, and her two most recent books were on Barack Obama's lists of recommended reading. Liz Moore lives with her family in Philadelphia, where Fresh Air is produced, and she directs Temple University's Master of Fine Arts program in creative writing. Liz Moore, welcome to Fresh Air. Thank you, Dave. I'm so happy to be here. Let's talk about Long Bright River.

This is set in this Philadelphia neighborhood, Kensington, which has gotten some national attention. It's become a regional center for drug users just because it was a place where people learned they could score drugs. They could use drugs or deal drugs. And in some cases, over the years, people have been living on sidewalks and in abandoned houses. And so it's been a big issue in a lot of ways. The other thing I'll just note about the neighborhood is that there's an elevated suburb. train that runs over Kensington Avenue, which is sort of the spine of the neighborhood, so that even in the daylight, it's that whole area, which is a business area, is kind of cast

into shadow, gives it a sort of Dickensian feel. So what made you want to make this the setting for a book? I am not from Philadelphia. I grew up in Massachusetts. I lived in New York for a time. My husband is from this area. When we arrived here together in 2009, I was looking at. for community and I was looking for writing projects. And a photographer who was at the time

making portraits of abandoned homes in the city of Philadelphia, his name was Jeffrey Stockbridge, invited me to go with him to interview some of the residents of Kensington that he was making portraits of. This was a long time ago. And so Kensington itself was not receiving the national attention that it now receives. So when I went there, I was kind of naive. and I was a little bit unprepared for what I would see. But what I was immediately struck by was how much the neighborhood had been failed in various ways in terms of, you know, resources that the city or the state could offer it. And also just the incredibly moving and interesting and complex conversations I had with the people

I was interviewing at the time. That became a photo essay. And I rarely do nonfiction writing, but it was actually nonfiction writing that caused me to take an interest in the neighborhood in a fictional way. My own family has a long history of addiction. I was kind of emotionally drawn back to the neighborhood over and over again because of that. I began doing community work with St. Francis Inn, running free writing workshops at a Women's Day shelter there. And although it was not active research, it functioned as the backdrop of like life experience that I had in Kensington that ultimately,

formed the setting. Yeah. There are two sisters who are at the heart of this story. Tell us about them. So Mickey is a patrol officer with the Philadelphia Police Department, and from the opening of the novel, she talks about how she's really not cut out for police work. She describes herself as, you know, not the first officer to, like, put her life on the line. She, I wanted to make her a very, it's kind of a fish out of water character, which I love to do. Her sister Casey has all always been troubled. The two sisters came out of the same family raised by a grandmother because they lost their own mother to overdose. Casey's just a little bit younger than... Casey's a little younger than Mickey, and they grow up incredibly close, but at the start of

the novel, they are estranged by virtue of the very different paths that their lives have taken. Mickey self-identifies as kind of the good sister who's always made all the right choices, and she has cast Casey into this role of being the quote-unquote bad sister. But those ideas become very complicated over the course of the novel without giving too much away. Right. We can say that Casey is a regular drug user and a sex worker on Kensington Avenue, right? Yep. Casey suffers from substance use disorder. She does survival sex work. She goes missing at the same time that a string of homicides is occurring in the neighborhood of Kensington. And although Mickey is used to seeing her sister absent from the streets for long periods of time while, for example, she's trying to get into recovery, the timing of this particular disappearance alarms Mickey. And she decides to kind of investigate off the job as well.

So there's a reading I'd like you to share with us. And this is, it's in the voice of Mickey, the sister who is a police officer. and she's worried about her sister who's been missing. And she goes to see their grandmother, who she refers to as G. They grew up in poverty because their mother died when they were very, very young. She also suffered from addiction, right? I'll also note that Mickey has a son, Thomas, who is four years old in the book. And so we hear a reference to that in the reading.

On the way home, I call G. we speak only rarely these days. We see each other even less. When Thomas was born, I made the decision to give him an entirely different sort of upbringing than the one I experienced, and this means avoiding G., avoiding all the O'Brien's, really, as much as possible. Begrudgingly, out of some unshakable sense of family obligation, I performed the perfunctory ritual of bringing Thomas to visit G sometime around Christmas, and I phone her once in a while to make sure she's still alive. Although she complains about it on occasion, I don't think she's actually bothered by her absence. She never calls me. She never offers any help with Thomas, though she's able-bodied enough to work her catering job

all right, and to put in her hours at Thriftway, too. Lately, I've developed the conviction that if I stopped contacting her, we'd never speak again. Go ahead, says G, after several rings, the same way she always answers the phone. It's me, I say, and G says, me, who? Mickey, I say. I say. I Oh, says G, didn't recognize your voice. I pause, letting the implication settle. The perennial guilt trip. There it is. I was just wondering, I say, whether you'd heard from Casey lately. Why do you care, says G., warily?

No reason, I say. Nope, says G. You know I steer clear. You know her shter don't fly with me. I steer clear, she says again, just for emphasis. All right, I say. Will you tell me if you hear from her? What are you up to, says G, suspicious. Nothing, I say. You'd stay away too, says G, if you knew what was good for you.

I do, I say. After a brief pause, G says, I know you do. Reassured. How's my baby, says G., changing the subject. She has always been kinder to Thomas than she ever was to us. She spoils him when she sees him, produces from her purse mountains of ancient, half-melted candy that she unwraps and feeds him with her hands. I see in these small charities an echo of the way she must have been with her own daughter,

our mother, Lisa. He's very fresh these days, I say, not meaning it. You stop, says G. Very faintly, at last, I hear a smile in her voice. You stop that. Don't talk about my boy like that. He is, I say. I wait. There is still a part of me that hopes that G will come around first, that she'll ask me to bring Thomas by, that she'll be. That she'll She'll offer to babysit that she'll ask to come see our new place. Anything else? She says at last. No, I say, I think that's it.

Before I can say anything further, she's hung up the phone. You know, what strikes me about that is the economy of the writing. I mean, you get this very, very vivid sense of this woman, her resentment, her bitterness about the deal life has dealt her. But it's barely a page. You have a lot of short chapters. And I wonder, you know, so many people say they're. rip through your books. People tell me they read that book in a weekend. I've felt the same experience. Is this conscious, do you think? I mean, do you work on getting things done

concisely yet so dramatically? I think a huge part of it is the amount of writing that I do that never sees the published book. I write and write and write, and usually it's stuff that I know won't ultimately be published, but I really get to know my characters through. the hours and hours and pages and pages of writing I do before actually writing the two-page scene that makes it into the book. So sometimes I describe my writing process like a tree where I know roughly, I know the place the book will be set, I know the main characters within the book, and I know only the inciting incident or the initial problem. And I talk about this a lot in my teaching practice too. Like, I know those three things. I write,

in a given direction, which functions kind of like the trunk of the tree. But after the trunk is formed, I have to send my characters out on different branches to put them into situations that may or may not feel realistic for them. And if I'm finding that a situation doesn't feel realistic for them, then I lop that branch off. I return to what I know. I grow another branch in a different direction. So, you know, the way that I conceived of G changed a little bit from start to finish. and that's even more true of the character of Mickey. I initially conceived her as a history teacher in an early draft of this book. She was not actually a police officer.

But I decided that for the sake of story, it would make more sense to make her a complete foil for her sister, to make her on the quote-unquote right side of the law and her sister on the wrong side of the law. And then suddenly I was writing a police officer character. So when you're writing a book, you have all these branches, which exist in what? Dozens of word documents on your computer? Hundreds. Yeah, I have hundreds of word documents for every book that I write, and they all have weird names like, you know, G. Caterer. If I've made G a caterer in one draft, then I might do a save as and do, you know, Long Bright River G bank teller, or whatever it is. You know, I usually name the file with whatever the most obvious changes that I've made. The book was made into a series on Peacock, which you were co-creator, co-writer, executive producer for. It was shot in Brooklyn, oddly.

Although it looks a lot like Kensington. I mean, it really does. I imagine it is hard for a writer who has put such time and effort into crafting this thing to see it adapted. Because, you know, it's a different medium. Things are going to change. Some characters change. The ending changed. How did you feel about the experience?

The experience was fascinating. Team sports were something that I always felt kind of apprehensive about. And I had the same apprehension going into the making of the series Long Bright River because I knew that although I was the author, you know, I wasn't the showrunner. I wouldn't have ultimate say over creative decisions. But at the same time, I would have a lot of, you know, a lot of input. And I do feel confident saying that my input was respected. and one thing that all of us agreed on, everybody who made the show, was the importance of bringing in members of the community of Kensington to set, both as consultants, on-set consultants, and offset consultants. And also in small roles, Father Michael Duffy from St. Francis N actually played a priest, which was not a stretch for him. in the series. The musician O.T. The Reel, who has kind of made a career in Kensington, played a pretty large role, a character called Doc. And we had other musicians from Kensington. James Poyser from the Roots was our composer, one of our two composers on the series.

We even brought in graffiti artists from the neighborhood to kind of tag the set and make that feel authentic. So I think if I'm, what I'm proud of in the series is making sure that members of the community had a voice within the series. Transparently, I absolutely wish it had been shot in Philadelphia. A lot of that was a budget decision that was kind of above my pay grade. And I think it would have been complex for various reasons to shoot. in Kensington, but the city of Philadelphia is still a place that I hope to shoot someday. So let's talk about the God of the Woods. That's your most recent novel, which is a big bestseller, and is going to be a TV series. It's also a mystery, but it couldn't be a more different

setting than Long Bright River, which is in this struggling urban neighborhood. This is set in the Adirondacks, these mountains in upstate New York. People may not be as familiar with the Adirondacks as they might in some other mountain, like in the other mountains. Like in the the Rockies or the Green Mountains in Vermont. I've been there a couple of times. Kind of wilder, less developed, less popular. Tell us about it and what inspired you about them as a setting for a novel. Yeah, the Adirondacks are a mountain range in upstate New York,

and it's really a huge swath of protected land. The Anderundack Park was formed in the 1890s. And my family actually, my mother's ancestors come from the Adirondacks. It became a kind of summer playground for the wealthy. And a lot of wealthy dynastic American families, quote unquote, discovered it in the 1800s and built these enormous compounds that they called great camps. And so the god of the woods centers on one of these great camps. It's fictional, and the family in question is fictional.

and just down the hill from the great camp is a summer camp that the family also founded from which their own 13-year-old daughter goes missing. So that's sort of the setup of the book. Right. And the interesting thing about this camp is that it's for kids, but it's not just, you know, swimming and campfires and volleyball. I mean, they get survival training. They learn how to, you know, make spears for catching fish and trap small animals and skin them

and cook them. And I guess the idea is that. the owners of the camp, which are this wealthy family that kind of run this land preserve, see themselves as real outdoors people and they want to preserve what, that culture, those skills? Yeah, they do. They have this notion that they are very skillful outdoors people, but they are quite wealthy and they've been, I think, protected from criticism for too long a time. So they've become pretty myopic and they have,

overestimated, let's say, their ability to survive in the wilderness. Meanwhile, a nearby town called Shaddock, also a fictional town in the book, is full of working-class people who are actually required to use the skills of hunting and fishing and trapping for their survival. The wealthy family in the book, their name is the Van Lars. They have named their own Great Camp self-reliance after the Ralph Waldo Emerson essay of the same name. And the locals nearby, I think it's very funny because they like to point out that it was not actually the family that built the house. It was the people of Shattuck who rolled all the lumber

on log roads and built the house and now serve the family and this kind of weird fiefdom that the family has created. And so there are a lot of class issues here. And can we say that the daughter of the wealthy family goes to camp and interesting things happen, right? Yes. Barbara Van Lahr is the kind of misunderstood 13-year-old black sheep of her family, she begs to go to camp, and her family at first does not want her to go, partly because although it's a camp for the children of the wealthy, they still wish to maintain a kind of divide between themselves and the campers. The family is very preoccupied by its own reputation and by optics, and they think it would be strange for them to send their own daughter to the camp.

But she gets her way. She spends a summer at the camp, and toward the end of that summer, she goes missing. And so the novel opens with her counselor, Louise, noticing one morning that Barbara's bed is empty and having a sinking sensation from that realization. The title, The God of the Woods. Tell us where it comes from what it means. The original title of the novel was not the God of the Woods. I called it self-reliance for the entire time that I was writing it, up to about a year before its publication, when everybody at Riverhead Books simultaneously broke the news to me that they hated the title of self-reliance, which I don't blame them for. I think the concern was that it would sound like a self-help book. So I was sent back to my room, basically, to try to come up with a different, title for the book. And often when I do that, I go through a variety of other texts published about some of the themes that crop up in my novels. So it's actually how I found the title of Long Bright River as well, which comes from a Tennyson poem called The Lotus Eaters. With the God of the Woods,

I was really interested in primary sources about the Adirondacks. That's the first place I started. I entertained the title, The Bark Eaters, which is what the word Adirondack actually means. ultimately I became really, really interested in the phrase wood panic, which is the real sensation of feeling completely disoriented in the woods, which often causes people, especially children, to walk in a particular direction without knowing where they're going, which is really dangerous. And one of the phrases that comes up a lot in the god of the woods is, when lost, sit down and yell.

It's emblazoned on different buildings at the camp. It's told to the campers when they arrive. And a version of that phrase was also told to me when I was growing up in the Adirondacks. Another way to say it is hug a tree. Stay in one place. Stay in one place and you'll be safe. Wood panic itself contains within it the word panic, which comes from the Greek god Pan, said to be a kind of playful trickster god who liked to make people feel lost in the woods.

And it occurred to me that the phrase, the god of the woods, referring to Pan, could also refer to a number of other characters in the novel, including the Van Lars, who I think mistakenly or in a self-aggrandizing way see themselves as the gods of their domain. I thought that's the title of the book. That's the right one. Liz Moore's latest novel, The God of the Woods, is now available in paperback. She'll be back to talk more after this short break. I'm Dave Davies, and this is Fresh Air. You're really good at writing. Do you enjoy it? Writing is something that I always enjoy having done. So because I have little kids, I write my fiction almost exclusively between the hours of 5.30 and 7.30 a.m. I feel very unsettled when I don't do it. In fact, Dave, when I arrived here, you said, have you been up since 5.30? And I said, actually, no, because my son decided to wake me up twice overnight. So I'm feeling a little off, if I'm being honest. It's a little, it's a, it's a, it's a, it's a, it's a, it's a, it's a, it's a, it's a, it's a, it's a, it's a, it's a, it's a, it's a, it's a, it's a, it's a bit compulsive for me. If I don't do it, I have, sometimes I feel like I have a bad day.

Seven days a week? No, I'm sorry, five days a week. I do it on weekdays. So Saturday and Sunday, you're okay if you're, I'm okay if I don't do it. But the other, the weekdays that I don't write my fiction, I feel like I failed myself in some way. It's not, there, 98% of the time writing is labor for me. Two percent of the time, usually at the very beginning of a book and the very end of a book, it feels like flying. It feels like it's almost a supernatural experience of being in a kind of flow state where words are arriving so quickly that they bypass my brain and go straight from something to my hands that are typing. And, you know, if I didn't ever have that 2%, I might not be a writer. But it's sort of like the 2% of the time, that's what you live for as a writer,

is that feeling of true breakthrough, of solving a problem that has felt unsolvable. And it's a gift. It's the great gift of my creative life is that kind of moment. Wow. Perseverance is needed. It takes you about four years to finish a book, typically. And I know from reading about you that you don't work from an outline. You don't know when you start a mystery how it's going to end.

You, what? You create characters and see what they do? Yeah, I never pre-plan. As I said, I know people place and problem is the shorthand that I use with my students going in. The one compromise I make is as I write the book, I keep a kind of simultaneous chronology running so that if I name a date, I will open up that other word document called Long Bright River Timeline. And I'll say, you know, whatever, December 20th, 2006, Mickey and Casey go to the Nutcracker as children. And what that helps me to do is to very quickly have a reference for ages if I'm jumping around in time. And also eventually to just kind of get a sense of the arc of the book.

There's a moment in The God of the Woods, your most recent book, where one of the characters that we meet early in who I, I felt most sympathetic with, she is physically harmed by someone that the character trusts, aware of the moment I'm referring to. I don't want to give it away, but it was painful for me to read because I liked this character so much. Is it painful for you to write? It is. I know the scene that you're talking about. This sounds diabolical.

As a writer, when I come up with a moment that I know is correct. for the book, but that does endanger a character I love in some way. My mind splits into, and half of my mind goes, oh, no, I have to put this character through this, and the other half is like, oh, yes, this is exactly right for this book. And it's a dynamic scene, and it moves the story forward. And actually, I remember when I understood that I would have to write that scene, all of a a sudden I understood something about the future of the novel as well, and it solved a problem for me later. So it was a gift of a scene even while it was hard to write. Yeah. You know, you're starting

with these characters and you put a lot of time and effort into this book years. Do you ever worry you're going to write yourself into a corner and can't get out of it? When I used to be in the newspaper business, I would, whenever I worked on a story of more than a few weeks, there would come a point where I would just hate it. I would want it out of my life. I mean, do you have this? I have never written a novel without writing myself into like all four corners of a run. room. The only thing that I take with me from novel to novel is the knowledge that I will at least one point, probably more than one point, feel that the novel is fundamentally broken and then I have to throw it out. So now when that moment arrives, which it inevitably does,

I'm not scared of it. I'm just sort of like, oh, there you are. I know you. I've seen you before. I am going to just have to hit my head into the wall over and over again until I bust through it in one way or another. And sometimes that means going back to the trunk of the tree and saying what's the last thing I knew was working and trying a different formal experiment, a different experiment of story, losing a character, creating a new character, jumping to a different point in time. But, you know, if I'm, if I'm, I can't put a fine, you know, I can't put an exact number on it, but let's say if I'm 150 pages into a book or 200 pages into a book, I'm going to keep going. I've not gotten that far in a book without finishing it, even though it sometimes does take me four years. It usually takes me four or five years to write a book.

When you're in one of those champs, are you a harder person to live with? A thousand percent. I am sorry to my whole family. I, you know, 10 percent of my brain is usually working out that problem. And you're a master's of fine art students at temples. You know, can they tell Liz is a different person than what? I don't think so. I think I'm able to compartmentalize. Teaching is very, very important to me, and it actually provides a respite to me. It's a chance for me to think about somebody else's problems with their writing so that I don't have to think of my own. And I am pretty transparent with my students about the ups and downs of my own writing. For example, technology has become such an untenable thing in my life that I've had to require myself to be fully offline when writing. And so I'll bring in, you know, right now I'm writing on an ancient iPad with a detachable keyboard because I can't trust myself to even be on my laptop when I write in those morning hours.

So I brought in my weird contraption that I devised in order to show my MFA students, look, this is what I'm writing on these days because I need to babysit myself. I cannot be connected to the internet in any way or I will, whatever, check Instagram. I want to talk about another book of yours, Heft. It was your third novel, I think, which I read. read in preparation for this. I commend it to the listeners. It's really good. The central character is a 450-pound man who's essentially a shut-in. You can't go up his stairs but lives his life, mostly in this room. We hear his inner monologue. It's written, in his voice, much of the novel, we empathize with him. In a reprinting of the book, there's a author Q&A in the back at which someone is interviewing you. And in that you said that of all the characters you've ever

written, you think of Arthur, this 450-pound shut-in, as most like yourself. I think there's something about the rhythm of his voice that mimics my inner voice in certain ways. His concern about what other people think of him, his desire, he's kind of a, I want to call him a maternal figure almost in some ways, but I think a lot about how to care for others. and I identify as somebody who's like very responsible and I worry about other people a lot and I worry about the people I love and people I don't know and I my instinct is to take care of them whether or not they want to be taken care of sometimes which is another problem that I have. I think Arthur has the same instincts.

I also, you know, that's another book that I wrote when I was quite young. I was in my 20s when I wrote that book. published in 2012. I would write Arthur differently now. Do you understand anything about how you would do it differently? What I'll say here is I think part of the reason that I made Arthur so physically different from me is because I was afraid of exploring my own true neuroses around food and eating. And although in the years since then I have been open about the idea

that Arthur reminds me of myself. At the time, I thought, well, nobody will possibly conflate us because I'm going to make him a man and I'm going to put him in a much different body than the body that I have. You know, fiction is weird. I think these days it's become sort of accepted, even expected for the writers of fiction

to be asked about the personal experiences that informed the fiction. And all of us do it, and we're used to being asked. And yet, I do think all of us would say there's a reason that we write fiction and not memoir. And part of that is because there's a line past which I don't necessarily feel comfortable going when I talk about my own life. And that extends also to members of my family.

Because I write about addiction, a lot of people are interested in what's my own experience with addiction and what's my family's experience with addiction. And I've gotten very used to saying, you know, my family has a long hair. history of addiction, but their stories are not my stories to tell aloud. And therefore, that's the phrase that I say, and that's all that I will ever say. Right. We need to take another break here. Let me reintroduce you. We are speaking with Liz Moore. She's a writer based in Philadelphia, where she directs Temple University's Master of Fine Arts Program in Creative Writing. We'll continue our conversation after this short break. This is fresh air.

Well, one of the things I discovered in reading about your life for this interview was that when you were younger, I guess in your 20s, you were a singer-songwriter. Can we play a tune? Should we listen to one? This is going really deep into my archive and my backstory, and I have to admit that I have mixed emotions about it, but I'm going to say yes, because I think it's kind of an important part of the story of how I started writing. So yes, the answer is yes. All right, all right. So you did have an album called Backyards, which people can find on YouTube. That's where I found it. This is the lead track called Across America. Do you want to say anything about it before we hear some of it? No, let's listen to it first. Okay, okay. Let's listen. Yes, Liz Moore. That's her song Across America when you were what, 21? I think I recorded that when I was 22. I had, I probably wrote that song when I was 21 or maybe younger. I don't remember.

Do you think there's a relationship between your musical voice and your writing voice? I do in the sense that I think a lot about the rhythm of lines. I'm obsessed with how sentences end. I love to end with a single syllable word. I think it has a lot of impact. It lands like a drumbeat. I think about things like a literate. I think, in the sense that I actually don't love it and I try to avoid it actually if we're getting technical.

Yeah. Oh, and here's the other thing that I think I take for music. When I'm writing, sometimes I'll know the beats that I want a sentence to have before I know what words will slot into those beats. I can sort of hear the number of syllables I want a sentence to have before I know what the words will be. Wow. You know, I did some reading in both of your last two and nine. novels over the last couple of weeks when I knew I was going to be talking to you. And I found, going back, all this stuff that was more enriching and complex, I mean,

which is just a sign of, I think, of all those endless hours and word documents that you put. I mean, this really is a really fulfilling read. Do you think about wanting to make sure that you're writing, particularly when you're writing mysteries, literary mysteries, as opposed to, you know, I don't know, what we call it denigrating to call it beach reading. I don't know. Do you think about that? The line between those two terms?

Yeah. Or how I'd like to be perceived. Yeah, and the kind of work you want to produce. I produce the only kind of work I know how to produce, which is work that's very attentive to its line-level writing, but also wants to tell a good story. And, you know, Long Bright River and the God of the Woods are my quote-unquote breakthrough novels

in the sense that they've reached a larger audience than I ever had before. But the only thing that differentiates them in my mind from my first novels are that one has, they both, each one contains a missing person at the start. And therefore they are perceived as or categorized as thrillers or literary mysteries. My first three novels also contained really, you know, story was something I was always interested in. A book of mine called The Unseen World deals with a mystery of identity. There's a character who has effectively loved. lied about everything in his entire life has invented an identity for himself and his daughter only discovers this after he begins to lose his memory. So she has to figure out who he really is and why he lied. Heft, there's a mystery of family, is all I'll say. I think in the U.S. we're much more preoccupied by questions of genre than other countries are. So when I

publish my books in other countries. I even notice that there's less of a divide between fiction and nonfiction or fiction and memoir. I don't really care what genre my books are called. I write the way that I've always written. I read very, very broadly. I love reading mysteries. I love reading literary fiction, whatever that means. I love reading. Now I love reading the books that like my daughter is reading. I think there's some really. really, really excellent young adult books, some excellent graphic novels. I think reading in general is a morally good thing for human beings to engage in and probably a good exercise for our brains that lets us decompressed from the very rapid onslaught of information that we get

from forms of technology that aren't literature. You're working on another novel, which nothing can be said about, right? Nothing can be said about the novel in progress. I don't even, it's taken me a very long time to even show anybody anything before I'm finished. And even still, it's usually just my agent or my editor. My husband gets very upset at times because I rarely will reveal, even to him, the world that I'm writing about. I just find that if I talk about it before it's done, it really knocks the wind out of my cells. and it's sort of like receiving the gratification before I deserve it.

Does that make sense? I need to delay gratification until I'm done with a manuscript. So I really keep it under wraps until I'm done. Your cake will be baked in four years. Wait for it. That's right. That's right. All right.

Well, we'll look forward to it whenever it comes and to the series. Liz Moore, thank you so much for speaking with us. Thanks for having me. Liz Moore is a writer based in Philadelphia where she directs Temple University's Master of Fine Arts program in creative writing. Her last two novels, Long Bright River and The God of the Woods, both bestsellers, are available in paperback. Coming up, John Powers reviews the premiere of new seasons for two-hit TV shows. This is fresh air. If you're a fan of thrillers, this is a big week on television with sequels to two-hit shows.

Prime Video has dropped the first three episodes of The Night Manager, a follow-up to the 2016 series based on John Le Corre's bestseller, with Tom Hiddleston and Olivia Coleman reprising their earlier roles. On the 14th, Apple TV offers the first two episodes of Hijack, season two, starring Idris Elba. It's a story about passengers held hostage on a subway car in Berlin. Our critic at large John Powers has this review. When I first began reviewing television, after years of doing film, I was struck by one huge difference between the way they tell stories.

Movies work hard to end memorably. They want to stick the landing, so we will leave the theater satisfied. TV series have no landing to stick. They want to leave us unsatisfied, so we'll tune into the next season. Oddly enough, this week sees the arrival of sequels to two-hit series. Apple TV's hijack and Prime Videos, The Night Manager, whose first seasons ended so definitively that I never dreamt there could be another. Goes to show how naive I am. The original hijack, which came out in 2023, starred Idris Elba as Sam Nelson, a corporate negotiator who's flying to see his ex when the plane skyjacked by assorted baddies.

The story was dopey, good fun, with Elba, who's nobody's idea of an inconspicuous. man, somehow able to move around a packed jetliner and thwart the hijackers. The show literally stuck the landing. It was hard to see how you could bring back Sam for a second go. I mean, if a man's hijacked once, that's happenstance. If it happens twice, well, you're not going on vacation with a guy like that. Still, season two manages to make Sam's second hijacking at least vaguely plausible by tying it to the first one. This time, timeout Sam's on a crowded Berlin subway train, whose hijackers will slaughter everyone if their demands aren't met. From here, things follow the original formula. You've got your grab bag of

fellow passengers, Sam's endangered ex-wife, some untrustworthy bureaucrats, an empathetic woman traffic controller, and so forth. You've got your non-stop twists and episode-ending cliffhangers. And of course, you've got Elba, a charismatic actor who may be better here than in the original, because this plot unleashes his capacity for going to dark, dangerous places. While more ornately plotted than the original, the show still isn't about anything more than unleashing adrenaline. I happily watched it for Elba and the shots of snow falling in Berlin. But for a show like this to be thrilling, it has to be as swift as a greyhound. At a drawn-out eight episodes, four hours more than movies like Die Harden Speed,

hijacked two is closer to a well-fed basset hound. Things move much faster in season two of the night manager. The action starts nearly a decade after the 2016 original, which starred Tom Hiddleston as Jonathan Pine, a night manager at a luxury Swiss hotel, who gets enlisted by a British intelligence agent, that's Olivia Coleman, to take down. on a posh arms dealer Richard Roper, played by Hugh Lorry.

Equal parts James Bond and John Le Carre, who wrote the source novel. The show raced among glossy locations and built to a pleasing conclusion. So pleasing that Hiddleston is back as Pine, who's now doing surveillance work for MI6 under the name of Alex Goodwin. He learns the existence of Teddy Dos Santos. That's Diego Calva, a Colombian pretty boy who's the arms-dealing protege of Richard Roper. So naturally Pine defies orders

and goes after him, heading to Columbia disguised as a rich dodgy banker able to fund Teddy's business. Here, Pine attends a fundraiser that Teddy is hosting, and the two feel each other out. So, you came alone,

no one to keep your company? I'm always open to office. Ah, I like that. And I'm sorry, I just thought that you might be married? I tried it for a while. French woman in Hong Kong. Didn't get a plan.

Oh, she's back in Paris now with our daughter. So not a family guy. Let's just say, I like my freedom. While David Farr's script doesn't equal Le Carre and sophistication, this labyrinthine six-episode sequel follows the master's template. It's positively bursting with stuff. Private eyes and private armies. Splashy location shooting in Medellin and Cartagena.

Jaded lords and honest Colombian judges. Homo erotic kisses, duplicities within duplicities, a return from the dead. Plus, Crackerjack performances by Hittleston, Lorry, Coleman, Calva, and Haley Squires as Pine's sidekick in Columbia. Naturally, there's a glamorous woman, played by community. Milamorone, who Pine will want to rescue. As it builds to a teasing climax, yes, there will be a season three, the night manager serves up a slew of classic Lacaree themes. This is a show about fathers and sons, the corrupt British ruling class, resurgent nationalism and neo-imperialism.

Driving the action is what one character dubs the commercialization of chaos, in which the powerful smash of society in order to buy up and profit from the pieces. If it had come out a year ago, season two might have seemed like just another far-fetched thriller set in an exotic location. These days, it feels closer to a newsflash. John Powers reviewed the new sequel of The Night Manager and Season 2 of Hijack. On tomorrow's show, we hear from Jody Foster on her life and career, from her early days as a child actor, to taxi driver when she was 12, marking its 50th anniversary next month, to her Oscar nomination for the film Nied,

and her Emmy for the series True Detective. She's now starring in the French-language film A Private Life. I hope you can join us. To keep up with what's on the show and get highlights of our interviews, follow us on Instagram at NPR Fresh Air. Fresh Air's executive producers are Danny Miller and Sam Brigger. Our technical director and engineer is Audrey Bentham, with additional engineering support from,

Deanna Martinez. Our interviews and reviews are produced and edited by Phyllis Myers, Anne-Marie Baldwin, Lorenz, Theresa Madden, Monique Nazareth, Anna Bauman, Thaya Challoner, Susan Yakundi, and Nico Gonzalez Whistler. Our digital media producer is Molly C.V. Nespera Roberta Shorak directs the show. For Terry Gross and Tanya Mosley, I'm Dave Davies.