What does it cost a family to cross an ocean — and who pays the price for generations to come? That is the quietly devastating question at the heart of Davin Malasarn’s debut novel The Outer Country.
The story begins in Thailand, where two sisters have their lives irrevocably split when their parents make the agonizing decision to send only one daughter to America — the foreign land the family calls “the outer country.” When the choice defies expectation, a wound opens between the sisters that time and distance only deepens.
Years later, one sister’s young son, Ben, becomes the center of the family’s unspoken tensions. When signs of gender nonconformity surface in him, a fateful decision is made that will cast a long shadow over his childhood — and set in motion a story about inheritance, silence, and the slow, difficult work of self-becoming. As Ben grows, he must navigate his queer identity, fractured family relationships, and the weight of a past that no one wants to name, moving between Thailand and Los Angeles and eventually to Stanford.
The Outer Country is a book about what we inherit, what we survive, and what it takes to finally tell the truth.
Asale Angel-Ajani: When you think back to the earliest stages of writing The Outer Country, which follows a family’s move from Thailand to the United States and unfolds as a transnational narrative shaped by migration, recognition, belonging, and misalignment across cultures and generations, what came first for you: a constellation of characters, a defining scene (like the exorcism), or some other initial seed that set the novel in motion? (Side question: and is that initial seed still legible in the book)?
Davin Malasarn: I had in my head a story of an aunt and her young nephew. She suspects that he might be gay, and she tries to “cure” him by forcing him to take part in a mysterious Buddhist ceremony meant to purify his soul. That was based on something that I believe happened to me as a child, and I wrote it as a short story told from the aunt’s point of view. I wanted to understand her reasoning for what she did. The story was very focused, taking place over just three days, but when my workshop discussed it, people had a lot of questions. They wanted to know the long-term consequences of the ceremony and the family dynamics, not just between the aunt and the boy, but between everyone in the household. As a result, the story grew to incorporate the events leading up to the ceremony and the aftermath. It also incorporated more points of view. But that initial inspiration still serves as a center of gravity in the book.
AAA: In the novel, “the outer country” begins as the family’s name for America—a place imagined at a distance, tied to migration, choice, and rupture. How did you think about that term as it evolves over the course of the book, especially as it comes to reflect not just geography but the limits of what can be seen or recognized—within a family, and particularly around queerness?
DM: “The outer country” is my translation of the Thai term “muang nok.” My relatives in Thailand used it as a substitute for America, even though it can mean any foreign country. For them, there was home, and there was America. Other places weren’t relevant. So even examined directly, the phrase carried a lot of weight for me.
Over the course of writing the book, I came to understand that “the outer country” could also represent foreign territory in terms of what lies beyond the characters’ imagined lives and experiences. Each person has to confront something other than what they expected. In this sense, stepping into the outer country demands a new understanding of themselves and the acceptance of things they previously denied.
AAA: You write about cultural dislocation alongside the everyday realities of economic precarity. How does The Outer Country both align with and push against conventional immigration stories? And I’m curious—was the novel’s critique of the American Dream something you set out to explore from the beginning, or did it surface as you were writing?
DM: In many ways, this book is about my family’s experiences. The struggle to fit in and find financial security in America is a critical component of that. It had to be in the background. I remember all the lessons we learned as I was growing up and how careful we had to be with money, even though all four of the adults in my household—my mom, dad, aunt, and uncle—had jobs. I couldn’t have written about these characters if I didn’t include this struggle. So, in one sense, I always knew it would be there, but I didn’t necessarily recognize that it would be a prominent theme.
And as a child, I saw the story from another angle. I saw individual family members, each with their own personalities and their own agendas that impacted our lives just as much as trying to achieve the American Dream did. That individual aspect was the more interesting focus for me, and it was something I wanted to emphasize that was outside of conventional immigration story themes.
AAA: The book spans generations and continents, juggling multiple perspectives with impressive balance. How did you figure out whose story it was at its core, and how did you keep from privileging one character over another? Were there any major trial-and-error moments with the structure, and what advice would you give to writers taking on a similarly expansive project?
DM: The structure was a challenge right up to the end. Weeks before the final draft was due, I was still moving scenes around and exploring events from different points of view. I began this story as simply as I could. It was told from one person’s perspective and took place over just a few days. By the time it was a full-length novel, I was writing from five different perspectives, and the story covered decades. It also moved back and forth in time, with one section alternating between timelines in every other chapter. That took a lot of experimentation to make sure I didn’t lose the reader (or key details) along the way. I don’t have a very linear mind, so the complexity didn’t bother me. But I also didn’t want to write a book that was unnecessarily convoluted. I hope the structure and chronology serve the story.
In terms of whose story this is, people still argue with me over that! I didn’t need every thread to be balanced, but I tried to give each character enough space to reveal themselves. I see the aunt character, Manda, as the main protagonist. Most readers seem to see the child, Ben, as the protagonist. That might be because he is most similar to me. I don’t mind that debate, and I’m not sure there has to be a clear answer. I like the idea that different readers might sympathize with different characters, and maybe they will relate to each character differently over time.
My advice to other writers is let go of any rigid structure and see how the story develops organically. Embrace the irregularities, at least temporarily, before deciding whether it needs to be more constrained. My mentor, Claire Vaye Watkins, put it this way: the structure of a book can be like the structure of a tree. It can have large branches and small branches. It can have tangles and gnarls. Those things make the tree more beautiful.
AAA: I understand that you came to fiction writing after a PhD in biology. That’s a significant pivot. What did the journey from scientist to debut novelist look like —and what kept you going during the period this book was finding its shape? Further, were there any models (authors or artists or books) that kept you on your path.
DM: Even though I focused most of my time and energy on biology throughout my (very long) education, I was always expressing myself creatively. I started out as a painter—which I pursued for over a decade before I gave it up to make more time for writing. So, science and the arts always progressed in tandem, even if that’s not obvious on paper. I did eventually make the decision to pursue writing more seriously, and that was a scary step. I was living in Paris at the time as part of a research fellowship, and I came back to California realizing I would have to change the trajectory of my career. I was lucky to quickly fall into scientific communications, which was something that made good use of my skill set. That has been really helpful in terms of supporting myself. It also helped me think of myself as a professional writer—and someone who could eventually publish a novel.
In terms of models, there are several writers throughout history who started out as scientists or doctors. That was often in the back of my mind and served as a comfort to me. I’m thinking of Chekhov and Bulgakov, but there are many others. I was also fortunate to know many scientists, including my PhD adviser, who placed a great deal of value in literature. She studied comparative literature as an undergraduate. A climate scientist I came to know once told me that he turned to research only because he didn’t think he had enough talent to write a good book. So, I saw mutual respect across disciplines, and that helped me find my place.
AAA: Your novel arrives at a moment when immigration, queer identity, and the rights of trans and gender-nonconforming people are all under intense political pressure in the United States. Did the climate around you change how you thought about the book as it moved toward publication — and what do you hope readers take from it right now?
DM: I took a decade-long break from writing because I felt like I wasn’t saying anything that contributed to society. When I returned to it, I understood that sharing our personal stories has inherent value. It encourages human connection, which is essential, regardless of the time period. I wrote The Outer Country with the goal of sharing a family story with all of its dimensions. That hit on immigration, identity, queerness, multiculturalism, and gender inequality because those issues come up time and again throughout history. Now, when these topics are once again making headlines, I hope this book reminds people that we all have a past, and really understanding someone requires discovering that past.
AAA: And an additional final set of questions: How did writing and publishing this book change your understanding of yourself as a writer? And what are you thinking of exploring in your next project?
DM: Finishing a major writing project changes us in a thousand subtle ways. I’m thinking more deeply with each new work. I want to expand my understanding of how personalities develop. I want to break away from the idea that a story has to come to a logical conclusion. I want to have more confidence in my unique aesthetic. Hopefully finishing this book brought me closer to being true to myself.
I’m not sure if my new project will work out, but I’m currently writing about a group of scientists. Society’s relationship with science is yet another area where our country is divided. Some people aren’t sure they can trust science any longer. I want to shed light on what actually goes on in a research laboratory and humanize the scientific community.
I’m very grateful that you took the time to think about my book so deeply and come up with such thoughtful questions. Thank you!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Davin Malasarn was born and raised in Southern California. After completing his PhD in biology at the California Institute of Technology, he earned his MFA in creative writing from Bennington College and completed the Queens University of Charlotte Book Development Program. He was a PEN America Emerging Voices Fellow, a Plympton Writing Downtown Fellow, and a Bennington Alumni Fellow. He co-founded The Granum Foundation, a non-profit dedicated to supporting writers, and hosts The Artist’s Statement podcast.
ABOUT THE INTERVIEWER: Asale Angel-Ajani is the author of the novel, A Country You Can Leave, a NY Times recommended book and an Amazon Fiction Editor’s Choice, as well as the nonfiction books Strange Trade and the forthcoming memoir, Fugitive Archives. Originally from California, she lives in New York City.