Line by Line

Davis recently sat down with Blair Knobel, founder and editor-in-chief of Vessel Magazine, for a conversation about the origins of Into the Night Woods. Author E. Davis Enloe is a man of few words—until asked the right questions. This second interview is part of a three-part interview series. Discover how Enloe reveals the backstory behind his debut novel, Into the Night Woods, including his personal history and influences, his thoughts on process, and the inspiration behind his craft.

How do you know when you are finished with a story?

Someone once said, ‘You never finish a poem; you just abandon it.’ That’s true for stories too. Maybe the better question is—‘When do you know it’s time to abandon it?’ I’ve gotten better at recognizing that moment. Lee Abbott once told me the term dénouement literally means “unraveling the knot.” You create the story, tie it up with conflict, and when it’s all unraveled—when fate has had its say—it’s done. Writers often make the mistake of trying to save their characters at the end. In Into the Night Woods, the very friendship Boyd is trying to save with Roger becomes fractured by tragedy. Fate intervenes. I didn’t try to ‘save’ them. It had to end authentically. Fate decides, not the author. That’s when you know the story’s done—when you’ve unraveled the knot, and it feels true.

That’s such a powerful perspective.

Yeah, I can’t stand when endings feel forced or ‘saved.’ They have to be honest.

Let’s talk about your writing process. Do you outline your stories, or do they unfold as you go?

I try not to outline too rigidly. You discover more if you let the story unfold naturally. I usually start with characters and a setting, throw them together, and see what happens. In my current novel [that I’m writing], a minor character named Trudy—who goes by Truth—was originally just a small mention. But as I wrote, I realized she was fascinating. She evolved into one of the story’s heroes. That’s the beauty of discovery. If I’d outlined everything, I might have missed her entirely. Later, when I have most of the draft, I use Post-its to figure out structure, pacing, and proportion—what Stuart O’Nan calls ‘ebb and flow. ’I check whether I’m spending too long on one thread, whether scenes feel balanced. But I don’t outline from the start.

How has your relationship with writing changed since finishing your first novel?

I think I’m less anxious now—more confident about getting a first draft down. But every time you face a blank page, it’s still a challenge. My granddaughter, who’s 14 now, drew a little bug when she was three and a half. It was amazing—I framed it and told her I’d use it for a poetry cover someday. When I asked her to draw another one later, she said, ‘I don’t know how I did it.’ That’s how creativity feels. Each new piece feels impossible until you just start. Some days it flows; some days it doesn’t. But you show up anyway.

I love how the creative process evolves from those experiences.

It really does. The creative process fascinates me. There’s something that comes from within that has to come out. There’s no definitive answer to why—it just is. For me, creativity is about what Otto Rank described: in the creative process, we try to put back together the broken pieces of ourselves. We want to make something beautiful, something that helps us feel whole again. When others connect with that work, they feel it too—it makes both of us more human. Robert Frost said, ‘No tears in the poet, no tears in the reader.’ I try to remember that. If you aren’t delving into something that makes you feel vulnerable, you’re missing the opportunity to connect with your reader. When I was writing Into the Night Woods, there were moments that made me cry—things I didn’t understand at first but later realized were deeply personal. The two boys in the story—Roger, who’s quiet and sensitive, and Boyd, who’s stubborn and headstrong—are, in some ways, the same person: reflections of me as a child. Roger is abused by his father, and the institutions that should protect him fail. Boyd, at 13, takes it upon himself to protect his friend. That kind of story mirrors the dysfunction of my own upbringing. But none of that needs to be explained to the reader; they just need to feel the truth in it. Rosanna Warren, Robert Penn Warren’s daughter, said that when you read a poem aloud, never explain it first—if the audience doesn’t get it, something’s wrong with the poem. The same applies to fiction. I don’t need to tell readers, ‘These two boys are two sides of the same coin.’ They’ll feel it if it’s there. Writers have to be willing to go into the vulnerable parts of themselves to create scenes that truly move readers. Relationships are central to that. A writer friend once asked why my stories are always about relationships. I started to get offended, then realized—what stories aren’t about relationships? Everything is. Even a sci-fi series about monsters is ultimately about people’s relationships with those monsters.

While writing this novel, were there any monuments that surprised you, or times you hit a block and had to work through it?

When you’re writing, the goal is always to maintain tension—another word for surprise. There’s an ebb and flow to it. You build intensity, then give the reader a brief rest so they can reflect before the next wave. There was one critical moment that stands out. I’d written a scene where Boyd throws dynamite under the abusive Earl Daggett’s truck, putting him in the hospital and leaving him in a coma. I thought, “What now? He’s in a coma the rest of his life—what do I do with him?” Then a friend, the writer Louise Marburg, told me about her estranged mother, who had a stroke and suddenly became sweet and kind. That story struck me. I realized Earl could have a similar transformation—go to a nursing home, recover somewhat, become gentle for a while before reverting to his old self. That insight changed the entire dynamic. Moments like that are gifts. Sometimes they come from friends, readers, or even offhand comments from my wife, Mimi. It’s a very collaborative process.

You’ve hinted a little about your next novel. Can you share more about that?

I felt it was important to write about child abuse because it’s so difficult for people to discuss—it’s painful and shame-based. I wanted to write a novel that delves into that. It’s darker than Into the Night Woods, more adult-themed. In my new novel, there’s a deputy who’s a murderer and a pedophile, and the sheriff protects him. Why? A large part of the novel is spent answering this question. That’s how stories work for me—through discovery.

Do you write every day?

When I’m in a project, yes. But I take breaks too. Recently, I paused to prep for a workshop I’m hosting here in Greenville with Stuart O’Nan. Sometimes I step away to do physical things—like pressure-washing the house! It sounds silly, but those breaks often bring clarity. Because a part of my brain is always thinking about story. This interview is part of a three-part series exploring the creation of Into the Night Woods. Read more about  Into the Night Woods here. Explore Vessel Magazine.