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The idea arrived in late 2020 through a secondhand description: friends were talking about a viral video of kayakers being mouthed by a humpback whale. Kraus had not yet seen the footage, but the moment he heard it described, one question formed and would not leave him alone. He searched the next morning for fiction that had tried to work through the actual biology of such a scenario and found nothing.
No, I had no particular interest in whales or the ocean, but that’s kind of what I enjoy doing these days — ie, take on a book project that is way out of my comfort zone and that will require mountains of research. It’s a good way to shake myself up, change my style, and ensure I’m never repeating myself.
Father-son relationships had anchored his fiction for years before this book, from the grave-robbing partnership in Rotters to the abusive household of Scowler. When he went looking for an emotional frame to hold a premise as visceral as being swallowed alive, he reached for the oldest one available.
From the moment I came up with the premise, it just felt really powerful. There’s something primordial about it that sparks an immediate, instinctive reaction in people. It certainly did in me.
He paired that primal image with what he called the simplest human relationship: the one between a child and a parent. The two registers, biological terror and familial grief, drove each other from the start.
The book was written while three people close to him were dying or had just died. His sister had very little time left; his father-in-law had recently died; a close friend had just passed. Those losses were not background to the book but the reason he needed to write it when he did.
She has very little time left to live. That made me think, you know, about Whalefall. It made me think about what a good death is. And those sort of ideas collided with the basic high concept idea of being swallowed by a whale and, you know, being swallowed by whether it’s your parents or the life that you’ve lived and the regrets that you have.
After his sister died, the book’s central ecological image, a whale fall, in which a dead whale sinks to the ocean floor and feeds entire ecosystems for centuries, became something more than metaphor. He connected it directly to his grief, and later found that readers who had experienced their own losses were finding their way to the same image.
I know that my metaphorical use of the phenomenon of the ‘whale fall’ directly connected to my sister. It was something I clung to and something I know other readers have found comforting as well.
Kraus normally begins with a plot and researches to fill gaps. Whalefall inverted that process entirely. Before he could sketch a scene, he needed to know whether a teenager could survive inside a sperm whale at all, even briefly, and what each chamber of the stomach would actually look, feel, and smell like. The research phase ran for roughly three months and produced no prose.
I had to front load the process with about three months of intense interviews with whale scientists and diving experts. And during that process, I was sort of like the diver inside the whale. And I was shining a flashlight at this part of the stomach and saying, what is this? What does it feel like? What does it smell like? What’s over here? What happens if I tug on this?
He also learned to scuba dive for the book. The goal was not certification or technique but something narrower: sensory data that no expert interview could supply. The diving lessons happened near Monterey, where he also hired an expert to film the actual dive at Monastery Beach twice after the camera failed on the first attempt.
That goes into why I learned to scuba dive for the book. It was less about mastering diving technique, and more about, ‘What does it feel like inside the suit? What does the mouthpiece taste like? What does it sound like when you breathe?’
Inside the whale, the science threatened to read like a lecture. Jay, the teenage protagonist, had deliberately tried to forget everything his diver father taught him, so every biological fact he needs to survive has to surface through memory. That constraint became the book’s structural engine: each piece of whale anatomy is tied to a specific charged moment between Jay and his father, so the flashbacks are not backstory but the literal mechanism by which Jay stays alive.
I really wanted to communicate how quickly the air was — he was losing air. And that sort of led to short chapters, and the short chapters then fed into the rhythm of the flashback. So it all sort of worked together.
The chapter markers themselves are PSI oxygen readings rather than numbers, which means a reader can track the rate of depletion at a glance. That single structural decision pushed every chapter toward brevity and locked the book’s pacing from the first page.
Kraus grew up in Fairfield, Iowa, landlocked and entirely removed from oceans or diving. By the time he was writing Whalefall, his sister was dying and he was working through what it meant to leave something behind. The ecological phenomenon at the book’s center, a whale carcass becoming a century-long food source for creatures that would never know it existed, gave him a frame for that question that biology could supply and grief alone could not.
I know that my metaphorical use of the phenomenon of the ‘whale fall’ directly connected to my sister. It was something I clung to and something I know other readers have found comforting as well.
He did not expect the father-son thread to reach readers beyond the book’s horror premise. The response changed his sense of what he had actually written. Many of the people who contacted him afterward were not horror readers at all.
I had a lot of readers tell me they finished the book and they called their dad. That ended up being a lot more universal than I’d expected.
The title is also the argument. A whale fall is a real ecological phenomenon: a dead whale sinks to the seafloor and its body sustains entire ecosystems for centuries, feeding creatures that will never know the whale existed. Kraus built the book around the question of whether a human life, and a human death, could work the same way.
There are good deaths, and there’s bad deaths. And the best death of all, I think, is when you can die and your death means something to others, whether that’s you’re passing along something biological, you’ve got a family, you’re leaving behind art, or you’ve just touched people in some way.
The book’s two sections are titled Truth and Mercy, drawn from his reading of the Book of Jonah. Truth names the damage between Jay and his father without softening it. Mercy is the harder question the book refuses to resolve on the reader’s behalf.
The book is divided into two sections, and those sections are drawn from my reading of the Book of Jonah. And the sections are titled Truth and Mercy... the second section of the book, titled Mercy, points toward or hopes for a better response, a way to understand that we’ve all been part of ugly truths and can we — when the chips are down, and particularly when life is ending, can we show mercy?
Where Jaws built its power on a shark as pure predator, Kraus designed Whalefall’s whale as the opposite. The creature that swallows Jay is not malevolent; it is indifferent in the way that something enormous and ancient is indifferent. That distinction shaped every scene set inside the animal.
The whale, as I envisioned it, was something very benevolent and, in fact, kind of godlike.
The reader response bore that intention out in a way Kraus did not anticipate: the people most affected were not those who came for the survival thriller but those who came out the other side and found themselves thinking about their fathers.