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The novel Jones was contracted to write, a contemporary story about gentrification in Atlanta, had stalled after years of effort. She described the prose as simply not swinging, and rather than push harder at the same material, she stepped back entirely, returning to the most unguarded writing practice she knew.
I finally just pulled out a piece of paper and just decided to write with the pencil like I did when I was a child and just write to kind of entertain and comfort myself. And I met Annie and Vernice [the main characters of Kin].
She assumed Annie and Vernice were backstory, perhaps the mothers of her real protagonist. By the time she had 150 pages, she accepted that the prologue was the novel.
Three people close to Jones died during the pandemic. One of them left a particular kind of absence, the kind that grief culture has no formal language for, and she had been carrying it when she sat down with the pencil.
I lost a good friend quite suddenly to something mysterious and I miss her. Her name is Aisha. I miss her so much. I miss Aisha every day. ... When you’re friends with someone, your name will not be listed in any obituary, but it breaks your heart to lose your friend.
Beyond personal loss, Jones saw a structural problem in how women’s friendships get ranked against marriages and parenthood, as though decades of closeness still don’t quite count. She wanted the novel to correct that ranking not by arguing it but by dramatizing it.
Your best friend keeps the archive of your heart, and you cannot ever be separated from that. [paraphrased from audio]
Jones’s picture of Spelman College, where protagonist Vernice studies in the 1950s, changed when she read Dovey Johnson Roundtree’s memoir. Roundtree, a Spelman graduate and civil rights attorney, attended in the 1940s, and what Jones found there overturned a familiar myth about HBCUs as institutions of an already-comfortable Black middle class.
Spelman has been presented to the world almost like it’s some kind of debutante factory, when in fact so many women of that era worked as maids to pay their tuition — a history she felt had been lost. [paraphrased from audio]
Getting the chronology right meant more than checking a calendar. Jones had a scene she needed and an Atlanta that wouldn’t cooperate with her timeline.
Atlanta desegregated early, so I had to pick up this whole book and move it back three years because I was determined to have Niecy go see a movie at the segregated Fox Theater.
The dual-point-of-view structure, alternating between Annie and Vernice, was not planned. It arrived as a solution to a narrative dead end: when Annie climbed out the window and disappeared, Vernice had no way of knowing where she’d gone, and the story had nowhere to go from inside a single perspective.
I had to go to the other person who knew, which was Annie. [paraphrased from audio]
What solved a problem in the first draft became the architecture of the finished book: two women, two minds, two versions of what the same events meant.
Jones turned in a first draft in which a character dies, and her editor’s response named exactly what the manuscript was protecting against. The editor’s argument was not about plot logic but about the reader’s emotional contract after 300 pages.
When I turned in the first draft, my editor told me I had killed the wrong character. She said, ‘When this character dies, it’s unfortunate, but after 300 pages, the reader wants to be devastated.’ I realized that I was actually shielding myself from the vicarious heartbreak that comes for losing a character you love.
The revision required something Jones had spent the first draft avoiding. She described it at the PRH Library keynote in language that made the cost personal rather than technical.
I had to break my own heart in order to finish the book. But I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to do it. [paraphrased from audio]
She wrote the final version of the manuscript wearing an eye patch, recovering from Graves’ disease, her heart rate still dangerously elevated, returning to the characters because, as she told Publishers Weekly, they were her escape.
In 2023, while drafting the novel, Jones developed tremors, then vision problems, then a limp, and was eventually diagnosed with Graves’ disease, an autoimmune disorder that attacks the thyroid. Her heart rate reached a dangerous level. When her condition stabilized enough to return to the manuscript, double vision meant she had to cover one eye to read.
I missed the characters. I put an eye patch over my eye because I was seeing double. I wrote the book with the patch on my eye, looking like someone out of Pirates of the Caribbean. I’d think, I know I’m not well, but let me see what the people are up to. They were my escape.
The deeper pull Jones felt toward Annie and Vernice had a biographical root she traced to her own Spelman connection. She attended the college at 16, the same institution where the novel is set, but she also spent years visiting a grandmother in rural Louisiana where, well into the 1970s, Black residents were barred from home mail delivery and had to collect their letters at a post office box. That particular texture of racial constraint, mundane and specific, went into her sense of what the 1950s actually felt like from inside a Black woman’s life.
I really hope that people walk away understanding that none of the issues that we are grappling with today are not new. That we are part of a lineage of people trying to make this a more just world.
Annie and Vernice are both motherless, but in different ways. Annie’s mother is simply gone, and Annie holds the possibility of reunion. Vernice’s mother is confirmed dead. Jones built the entire emotional architecture of the two characters around what that difference does to a person over time.
Much of the novel is about this question of hope: is hope a virtue or a detriment? Annie has the idea that one day she could be reunited with her mother, and that hope wakes her up every morning — but disappointment puts her to bed every night.
The novel places queer characters and women managing unwanted pregnancy in a 1950s Atlanta setting, and Jones was direct about why that choice was not anachronistic. She was pushing back against a historical amnesia that mistakes visibility for origin.
We act as if certain issues were invented in the ‘80s. Gay people got invented in the ‘80s, abortion got invented in the ‘70s. All these issues have been around since people were people. Of course, the ways that we talk about them are different, and the ways people are treated in their status and society have changed. But the fact of it, the history of it, the lineage of it, it’s always been there.
The women in the novel who step in to raise children they never agreed to raise are doing labor, and Jones was specific about the stereotype she was interrogating rather than reproducing. The 1950s setting let her place that question at a moment before reliable contraception existed, when the options available to women were even narrower.
Black women are either stereotyped as terrible mothers or just bottomlessly maternal. And so I was really interrogating, what does it mean to mother by choice, and what does it mean to mother not by choice?
Jones traced a gap she sees in how contemporary culture handles chosen family: people can state the principle without having absorbed it emotionally. The novel is designed to close that gap by making the reader feel the weight of two women’s decades together rather than simply witness it.
I think the idea that blood isn’t what makes you family, we’ve kind of accepted that intellectually as a culture. But I think we have trouble actually feeling it.
Jones also pushed back against a media image of Black women as rivals by nature, something she said had simply not matched her own life. The friendships in the novel, and the labor those friendships require under difficult conditions, were meant as a counter-record.
I have found Black women to be wonderful friends. The media has made it seem like Black women only are frenemies to each other. But that has just not been my experience. [paraphrased from audio]