Author Gina Chung blends real life with fiction, often exploring themes of memory, language, and family heritage in her writing. Her recent works, Sea Change (2023) and Green Frog (2024)—the latter winning the 2025 O. Henry Prize for Short Fiction—dive deeply into the complexities of personal and collective histories. In a conversation with Mikayla Emerson, Chung reflects on the inheritance of storytelling, the challenges of writing in multiple languages, and the unique experience of having her parents attend book events.
A Chain of Storytelling
Mikayla Emerson: Your book dedication to your mother as your “first storyteller” was a touching moment. Throughout your work, there seems to be an ongoing tribute to various storytellers—whether it’s the grandmother in Rabbit Heart or the mother in Green Frog. The final acknowledgment, “thank you to all the storytellers of my life,” also highlights this theme. How did this emphasis on storytelling evolve?
Gina Chung: I never set out to create a cohesive collection. But as I pieced the stories together, I realized that they reflected ideas and themes that resonate deeply with me as a writer. One of the central motifs is matrilineal storytelling—the passing down of stories within families and communities. While these stories may not always directly reference specific Korean folktales, they are influenced by the impact these tales had on me. The dedication to my mother was crucial because, without the stories I first heard from her and her mother before her, I wouldn’t be a storyteller today.
Memory and the Fictional Process
Emerson: In Presence, you write, “Everyone who comes here is running away from something. The body reveals everything if you know how to listen to it.” This got me thinking about memory and the stories we tell. How do you view the relationship between personal memory and fiction?
Chung: Memory is a constant theme in my work. Sometimes, it even becomes a crutch when I’m unsure about a character’s direction—if in doubt, I tend to write about their childhood. It’s a way for me to understand my characters better, uncovering what shapes their present actions. While much of my writing isn’t directly autobiographical, it’s my way of interrogating my own memories.
Storytelling is inherently tied to time—time and memory are inseparable in fiction. In classes I teach, I often say that time is the fiction writer’s number one tool. Unlike other forms of writing where time can be condensed or frozen, fiction thrives on the passage of time. That’s why we read stories: to experience how time unfolds.
The Role of Language in Storytelling
Emerson: Language also plays an important role in your writing. In Rabbit Heart, the granddaughter learns to say a Korean phrase, “Please be healthy and live a long time,” to her grandmother. What role does language have in your storytelling?
Chung: As a writer, I’m fascinated by language—particularly by the nuances of English and the way it’s spoken in immigrant households. Growing up in an immigrant family, I became a “heritage speaker” of Korean, a term I recently learned. It describes someone who initially spoke their native language fluently but loses proficiency over time. My Korean can be quite broken, but it’s a reflection of my lived experience.
I’m not trying to be a translator in the traditional sense. Instead, I focus on capturing the emotional essence of speaking a language that isn’t fully fluent, conveying both the clumsiness and the truth behind those words. The line you mentioned in Rabbit Heart about the phrase I was taught as a child is a perfect example. It’s awkward in English, but it’s the truest way to express the sentiment I want to convey.
The Spark for Rabbit Heart
Emerson: In an interview with Idaho Review, you mentioned that many of your stories stem from an image or a question. What sparked Rabbit Heart?
Chung: In 2020, I took an online class with writer K-Ming Chang, who explored myths, family, and the intersection of the mundane and the extraordinary. That class inspired me to think about the image of a child getting to know their grandparent, knowing their time together is limited. The idea of magically extending that time fascinated me.
Part of it is rooted in my own experience. My maternal grandmother had a brain aneurysm and remained unresponsive for over a decade. As a child, I often wondered what it would be like if she could wake up and resume her life. This personal connection to the theme of family and loss deeply influenced the story.
Parents at Book Launches: A Personal Experience
Emerson: You’ve shared on social media that your parents have attended your book events. Given the deeply personal themes of family in your stories, how has it felt to have them there?
Chung: My parents are incredibly proud and supportive. When I was younger, there was never pressure to pursue something “practical,” although they did worry about my ability to support myself. Now, they’re relieved to see things happening—like, “Oh, she’s not just holed up in a room doing something crazy.” It’s been wonderful having them involved.
At the same time, it’s vulnerable, especially with Sea Change, which touches on family conflict and intergenerational trauma within an immigrant context. My parents don’t always understand the intricacies of the literary world, but they’ve always been supportive. My mom may not have read the novel yet, but my dad did. When I asked him what he thought, he said, “It’s very cinematic,” and that was that. But I could tell he was proud.
In a world where stories are passed down and reshaped, Gina Chung’s writing continues to bridge personal history and fiction, reflecting the emotional texture of memory, language, and familial bonds.
