AGE: 28
BASED IN: New York
NOW PLUGGING: Dated, February 2027
The speechwriter and comms specialist Leah Abrams has been constructing political narratives for publications and well-trafficked social media accounts for years (just read her article in The Nation about being—that is, ghostwriting for—John Fetterman). Now, Abrams is reckoning with those experiences in her own voice. Her debut novel follows a young speechwriter optimistic about her entry into New York politics, only to be disillusioned when the mayoral candidate she’s been platforming takes a turn toward the right wing.
What’s writing for you? An act of agony? Delight?
The illusion of complete control.
What’s one work that crystallized your voice?
The Conversion of the Jews by Philip Roth.
Describe your writing ritual.
Why lie? I am not monastic about writing and often have my phone open while I’m working on a story. I reward myself with short-form video content every few paragraphs, like a little monkey pressing the happy button to flood the pleasure centers of her brain.
If you had to blurb your own book, what would you say?
“Well, she certainly didn’t hold back.”
What’s the biggest challenge facing young writers today?
First, there’s no money. That’s a given now. Second, the crippling effects of political censorship on a young writer’s development cannot be overstated. We are living in a time of functional gag order on political dissent, especially when it comes to direct criticism of Israel’s ongoing genocide of the Palestinians, which rapidly encroaches on the West Bank and East Jerusalem. There is no telling how this culture of silence restricts the young writer’s imagination, let alone their publication prospects. It may take generations of hindsight to find out just how deep the rot has spread.
Describe a moment when you lost faith. What would you tell that younger writer?
Every time I’ve lost faith in myself as a writer, it’s been because I lost faith in myself as a person. I’ve felt useless, helpless, confused, adrift, a waste, unworthy of the gift of a writing life. The only way I’ve found to go on is to write myself out of that state. So I guess that’s what I’d tell myself: When you feel least deserving is when you need it most.
What’s one word or phrase that you find yourself using (or over-using) in your work right now?
While reading back my novel, Dated, for copy edits, I realized I had used the word “frum” three times by accident. I corrected it—you can probably only get away with once for a word like that—but it surprised me! I really don’t walk around calling things frum in real life. I’m not a very religious person, despite what my fiction may suggest.
Describe one rejection you experienced in your career that you can’t forget.
This isn’t exactly a rejection (God knows I’ve been rejected countless times, and at this point, recounting the list feels kind of vindictive, hubristic, and boring), but I recently heard that a former mentor of mine said of me, “She’s smart, I just worry she’s not focused enough.”
When I first heard this, I was incensed and defensive, but I had to admit she had a point. Then I began to think that being unfocused is actually an incredibly useful trait for a writer—it lends you distance from yourself and whatever forms of work you do to get through the day. It’s the only way to guarantee you don’t fall into tunnel vision inside a larger and more insidious institution; it allows you to daydream, to wander; it keeps you from betraying yourself, your sensibilities, and your values. Focus is important, but following a dangled carrot will always lead you astray. Maybe that sounds like cope. I don’t know how to be any other way.
in your life?
