Natalie Haynes: ‘I’m so vegetarian, even as a novelist’

Portrait by Karen Robinson

Natalie Haynes is a critically acclaimed author and broadcaster; alongside Madeline Miller and Pat Barker, she is one of the great modern writers reimagining classical myths. Her Radio 4 show Natalie Haynes Stands Up for the Classics has just completed its 11th season. Her retelling of the Trojan war, A Thousand Ships, was shortlisted for the Women’s prize for fiction in 2020 and widely translated, and her nonfiction book Pandora’s Jar: Women in the Greek Myths was a New York Times bestseller. Haynes’s fifth novel, No Friend to This House, is a retelling of the myth of Jason and his search for the Golden Fleece, focusing on his love for the child-murdering enchantress Medea.

This is a novel about Medea, yet she doesn’t show up until quite far into it.

That was the idea. It’s like the shark in Jaws: you have to wait. But hopefully when she finally arrives, the wait has been worth it.

It must have presented similar challenges to those you faced in Stone Blind, your version of the Medusa story. How do you make your readers sympathise with a monster?

I first read Euripides’s play when I was a kid; it was one of the first Greek plays I encountered. At that time I didn’t particularly disagree with Medea’s actions. Obviously now I’d say that weaponising children to the point of killing them is a bad idea. But when I was 17, I thought, yeah, it’s war.

Medea is remarkably alive on the page. How did you achieve that?

What’s difficult about her is that she’s both a young girl in love and a dark sorceress with extraordinary power. Ovid attempts to reconcile Medea’s contradictions but ends up with melodrama – something I wanted to avoid. I felt I needed to introduce her as a powerful priestess who, because she loves someone, channels her powers into supporting his name and reputation. But quickly she realises this won’t be enough for her. So she quietly builds her own reputation. When he leaves and everything is taken from her, there’s a pause before she realises: “Oh wait, I’m incredibly powerful – I’m going to fuck him up.”

This dynamic seems quite common among my friends who gave up their careers when they had children, forgetting they once had their own superpowers. Later, as their children become independent, they rediscover their talents. “Oh wait, I used to be really good at stuff.” It didn’t feel unreasonable to ask readers to believe that.

Tell me about the tragic story of Chrysomallos, the golden sheep whose fleece becomes an object of desire.

Recording the audiobook, I completely lost it at that part. Lydia, my audiobook producer, is an ultra-marathoner – she’s tough as nails – but even she broke down. We were both wrecks. It’s genuinely a sad part of the book. Truthfully, I really like sheep, and typically I avoid sacrificing them in my books. I usually choose goats, horses or heifers. But in this book, two sheep die and I felt awful. Turns out I’m so vegetarian, even as a novelist.

What’s the interaction between your performance and writing? This feels like a book meant to be read aloud.

I’m a huge advocate for reading aloud while writing and editing. At the most basic level, it’s the best way to catch mistakes – not only typos but repetitive words or phrases. With so many people now listening to audiobooks, I no longer consider the audiobook a secondary format. It’s just as important.

I try not to let the performance overwhelm the text, but I always ensure I could perform it. I used to write lengthy parenthetical phrases, which are a nightmare to read aloud, and I’ve mostly stopped doing that.

What was your relationship with Euripides’s text?

With this novel particularly, I knew the source material intimately. I’d written a college paper comparing Medea in Pindar, Apollonius and Euripides. When I started writing, I translated Euripides’s play by hand, despite usually typing my work. It felt essential to engage directly with the Greek. It took about three weeks – I’m not a quick translator – and involved delving deeply into textual transmission issues. This novel felt strange to write.

Usually, I know exactly what comes next. I had the final scene of Stone Blind clear from the start. But with this I never knew. I’d start chapters and quickly realise they were wrong, out of order, or needed a different voice. I never felt fully in control, which was unusual for me. So yes, my voice changed, but I’m not sure I consciously controlled that evolution.

Having read your version, I now want to revisit the source material.

I can never understand why people worry about adding to myths. When writing about Jocasta, I initially worried readers wouldn’t like my rationalised version without monsters, where the Sphinx is just people. But even radical revisions have precedents stitched into the originals – we just overlook them. I saw a play where Oedipus doesn’t kill Laius, his father – they just chat – and the myth survived just fine. I realised I couldn’t break these narratives. If readers don’t like my book, Euripides’s version, the greatest play ever written, is still there. It’s liberating.

How do you arrange your books?

Badly, due to space constraints. I have a small flat overflowing with books – I don’t collect ornaments or newspaper clippings, just books everywhere. Books are stacked two deep on shelves, piled on top and precariously perched above my Ikea Billy bookcases, sometimes falling behind. They’re an absolute state.

What do you pack for holiday reading?

I read Mick Herron’s Slow Horses books on my last holiday – they’re fantastic.

What book do you reread most often?

The Complete Calvin and Hobbes by Bill Watterson. There is no day that isn’t vastly improved by even a few minutes in their company. Witty, adventurous, the occasional voice of reason while fully focused on snacks, Hobbes is my spirit tiger. And at some deep level I believe, as Hobbes does, that you really can judge an artist by the quality of his smock.

No Friend to This House is published by Mantle (£20) on 11 September. Order a copy from The Observer Shop for £18. Delivery charges may apply