True Crime and Cannolis: An Interview with Gina Tron, Author of Eat, Fuck, (Write About) Murder
By Riah Hopkins
Gina Tron begins her new memoir, Eat, Fuck, (Write About) Murder, with a disclaimer: her book and the Elizabeth Gilbert memoir its title parodies share only surface level similarities.
“In Eat, Pray, Love, the protagonist resolves her divorce by seeing the world. Through her travels, she finds purpose, meaning, and finally, love again. The following is a much bleaker version of that story. In the midst of breakups with a serious boyfriend and a literary agent, I do some traveling and some eating and I write about murder, but—spoiler—I do not fall in love with someone new in this story.”
Instead of finding herself, Gina (with her Blenheim Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, Amelia, in an airline approved carrier) travels to Sicily to run away from herself. Gina funds her travels by writing true crime content about women who were murdered by their supposed loved ones, or by complete strangers. The result is a bizarre Mediterranean getaway where Gina tries to lose herself to scrumptious cannoli and (perhaps overly) amorous Italians, but is grounded into her body by the persisting knowledge that misogyny is everywhere—and, in such misogyny, is the urge to love and destroy.
Sitting down with Gina Tron, we discussed Eat, Fuck, (Write About) Murder, her memoir and true crime writing career, as well as misogyny, vulnerability, and traveling.
You are the author of several memoirs — You’re Fine, A Blurry Picture of Home, and now Eat, Fuck, (Write About) Murder. What motivates you to write about yourself? What inspires you to share your personal stories with the world?
One part is it just comes easy to me, and part laziness because writing fiction—which I have done, I do have an unpublished novel—was so hard. Maybe I’d be better at it now, but it was so hard for me to create fully dimensional characters. I really had to base them on multiple people in my life and then take off from that. It’s so hard for me to create characters out of nobody, out of nothing, and it’s so much easier for me to base it on real people and my real experiences.
I was talking to somebody recently—they were a lot older—and they said to me, “wait you’re 40 and you’ve written multiple memoirs? Why?” I don’t think they meant it in a mean way, because to a lot of people a memoir is their life story, but I think that everybody is capable of producing multiple memoirs. I didn’t even realize this before I started writing my first memoir, You’re Fine, that a memoir is not a life story. It’s a snapshot into your life that’s a teachable moment where you learn either something about yourself or about humanity and now you’re giving back. Everyone has so many memoirs in them. When I was teaching a memoir class in San Francisco, so many people felt this pressure when writing to show their whole life story and include all these important things from their life. And I’m like, “no, really it should just be a small snapshot.” You’re doing it because it’s a relatable story that, hopefully, other people can relate to.
None of my memoirs—even though they might touch on different points in my life—none of them are my life story. And, actually, all of my memoirs are me at my worst moments. The times in my life I wouldn’t write about are so boring and so insignificant because I’m not really learning a lot. They’re not moments where I’m distraught. You’re Fine is right after I go into a psych ward—those were probably the worst days of my life, and I learned a lot. And Suspect is about high school, being bullied, writing a threat, being an accomplice to a threat, and those kinds of feelings. With those books, especially with Suspect, it feels good and it’s cathartic to write about that part of my life because I can learn so much about it. But I also feel like I’m giving back because it’s contributing to conversations about mass shootings in a way that I don’t think anyone has. Not to say I have insight into what it’s like to be a mass shooter, but I know what it's like to wrongly sympathize with people who have that mindset, or to understand what it's like to want to have some power when you feel bullied.
That relatable quality was one of the things I enjoyed most about Eat, Fuck, (Write About) Murder, but what might you want your readers to take away from it? What do you hope is the book’s teachable moment?
One is that you’re not alone. Women and women-identifying people are taught to beat ourselves up for everything, and that includes small things like angry texting. Even in this relationship that I write about in Eat, Fuck, (Write About) Murder, I was made to feel really bad about not reacting properly when my ex did lie to me and did do really shitty stuff. I still look back with so much regret for rage texting people after they betrayed me on such deep levels when, as a woman, I feel like I have to hold my composure, be nice, and not be an asshole. I think, hopefully, some people can relate to those feelings.
In this book, I felt so disconnected from having family or structure, even when family came out to visit me, even when friends that are like family did too—I just couldn’t connect with them. So, a lot of tools and the connections I had were there. I just needed to overcome some of my trauma and learn how to connect with people. I was too focused on other things, still very much operating on trauma. Meanwhile I had family, loved ones, and the connections I was craving; I just wasn’t able to fully see it to the degree that I should have appreciated it. I did go into therapy for PTSD—I did EMDR therapy after this—and more officially and more formally addressed the issues that I had, and I did feel like a healthier person after doing that. It wasn’t like You’re Fine when I needed serious help, but I did still have some lingering issues that I needed to get over before I could fully bond with other people.
Photographs courtesy of Gina Tron.
As a memoirist, do you find any of these really personal and vulnerable moments challenging to write about or share with others?
Weirdly no. It’s easier for me to write about it and put out in the world than it is for me to sit down and talk to a person about it. I feel like if I was to sit on a couch with a friend and, not dump on them, but talk about something that’s heavy, there’s this kind of expectation that they need to either comfort me or offer something. But when I write about these things, nobody needs to respond. They can interpret it how they want, or even roll their eyes, and I won’t even know. I’m not asking anyone to do anything, but it is cathartic. And then I do, sometimes, get feedback from people, which is helpful. The assault I went through was before the #MeToo movement, and I didn’t find the people in my life to be particularly supportive at the time, but I found a lot more cathartic value in writing about it and having people read and then we were able to communicate about it and bond over it. Without me asking for help, I was able to put out stuff that, at the end of the day, helped me.
The one difficult thing is—and it’s not an annoyance—but sometimes when you put stuff out there because you need to heal from it, other people—which is not any fault of theirs—see you as someone they can kind of talk to about it. So you have more people dumping their stuff on you, but then you’re kind of like, “I’m not in a good place to hear this right now.” It’s so funny, people might think you are the loudest person in a room based on what you write because you can be pretty bold about it, but I usually just listen to other people.
You were in Italy for three months, and, while you were there, you continued writing true crime for Oxygen. How did you start tackling this subject? Is there anything in particular that draws you to true crime?
I have always been interested in true crime to some degree or another. The one A+ I got in high school was on an assignment where I wrote about serial killers and mass murderers. Domestic terrorism was interesting to me as a kid because it felt so weird, and I didn’t understand why somebody would hurt their own people or countrymen to that degree. I’ve always been curious about how people tick, and I never really bought the whole “there’s good people or bad people” thing. From a young age, you think that there’s just villains and victims, and so I’ve always been interested in how a seemingly normal person can do horrible acts and how, often, “good” seeming people do really shitty things and they’re never called out on it.
When I started doing journalism, I honestly did not think that I would be doing any “real” journalism or true crime work. I originally thought I was just going to write about music and fashion—which I was doing—and it was fun, but it just wasn’t rewarding on any deep level. I had already written one or two things for VICE, so, out of curiosity on certain issues, like the heroin issues in Vermont, I started pitching more serious topics.
Then, people started coming to me with murder topics—things like “my relative was shot to death by the police in Florida”—so I’d pitch that. Because of the writing I did about my high school experience, I had survivors and relatives of mass shooting victims reach out to me and ask to write about their related issues. In particular, the parents of one of the women who was killed in the Aurora movie theater shooting reached out to me, and we wrote about ways for news stories to not name or show pictures of mass shooters. That was interesting to me because it felt like I was making a difference—or trying to.
And then I was a reporter in Vermont, writing about really boring civil topics at city council meetings, but then there was a mass shooting in Vermont and I reported on that. Things just kept happening where I realized I had a solid amount of stories about murder topics, so when I saw that Oxygen was hiring a crime writer I showed them all the stuff I’d done, and that’s how I got that.
I’m actually not at Oxygen anymore, and it’s kind of nice not to have to write about dark topics all the time. I loved it, and I still love it, but I definitely got a little burnt out by the end. Looking back on Eat, Fuck, (Write About) Murder, too, it was starting to affect me. It contributed to my fear of men and going outside and being alone and being attacked. Not that these fears are unfounded, because it’s true, I was constantly aware of how dangerous the world is for women, but that wasn’t healthy to always think about on a 9-to-5 basis. That was my life, basically, because it’s usually women who are being attacked—or people who “don’t matter,” like women, sex workers, substance users, people like me from back in the day. So I was constantly reminded of how people are discarded and treated like shit and the police don’t care. When I worked in true crime, I tried to do a lot of victim focused articles—a lot of the stuff I did write was “smut” because we had to churn out daily stories—but I did pitch a lot, and I did get the opportunity to write a lot more victim focused stories.
It’s nice to be aware of these things. I don’t know if there’s a healthy level of being aware and being obsessed or not. I don’t know if there’s a right answer. I think to live in the dark and pretend that this stuff isn’t happening isn’t healthy.
Speaking of true crime as “smut,” the popularity of Netflix’s Dahmer mini-series last year prompted discussion about the glorification of serial killers and the commodification of suffering. Where do you stand on the ethics of true crime? Does any “good” come out of it?
I think about this a lot. I think a lot of good can come out of it, but there’s a line—it can easily wind into exploitation or glorification. Not that there needs to be more rules about it. For example, with the Dahmer thing, my perspective is that we already have enough on him. It’s fine that there’s a few things out about him, and learning about why this happened and focusing on the victims and how they were ignored is important in showing the mistakes that the police made. But we didn’t need another Dahmer movie. We have enough. It’s not a new story, and, at this point, you’re not learning anything new from it—you’re just profiting off the fact that people know who Dahmer is and are already obsessed. I feel the same way about Ted Bundy, too. I think we can just end all Ted Bundy everything. We’re turning these people into legends at this point, and I do have a problem with that. Too much attention on anyone who has done something bad is terrible in itself.
In general, especially in the US, we do need to have more discussion on how to limit the attention terrible people are getting for the things they do, and to be aware of the folklore we’re creating when, honestly, at the end of the day, these people are losers. Like Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs, most serial killers or murderers are not that. They’re a disgusting thing that likes to have sex with corpses; they’re not super geniuses but are fucked up, and not in a cool way. Some of my favorite podcasts are the ones that rip serial killers apart and make fun of them. They deserve that more than to be built up in these weird anti-hero ways.
The discussion right now is very warranted. Right now, true crime is at a peak—it’s too oversaturated. Five or ten years ago, it wasn’t as bad, but now it’s become more entertainment than it should be. There is room to talk about more and interesting stories in true crime from the victim’s point of view, like doing more docuseries on Native American women who have gone missing, rather than just enhancing stories that already exist. There should be more untold stories. You can draw a map of true crime and see the ones that are more tasteful and the ones that are just rehashing. . . it does all blur together, and it gets complicated. I definitely felt good walking away from the genre, though. I think I was contributing to the not-so-great part of true crime, and it wasn’t feeling right for me anymore.
It’s nice to be aware of these things. I don’t know if there’s a healthy level of being aware and being obsessed or not. I don’t know if there’s a right answer. I think to live in the dark and pretend that this stuff isn’t happening isn’t healthy.
While you were in Sicily, you were covering the very popular Watts family murder case. In Eat, Fuck, (Write About) Murder, you write about Shannan Watts saying: “I wrote line after line about a dead woman, who like me, should be in the midst of a breakup. But she didn't have the opportunity to ruminate and eventually move forward. Instead, her selfish husband killed her and took their kids down too.” How do you handle the emotional toll that comes with delving into these stories, especially when, as is the case with Shannan Watts, you relate to the women involved?
To be a reporter or journalist or crime writer, you need a thick skin. It’s not to say that you don’t feel anything, because I definitely do—I feel empathy and I get mad and upset about things—but I put distance between myself and the subject, or else I’d be crying all day. I have an issue with that in general—with, for my own emotional protection, putting distance between me and people I love. In the book, a friend comes to visit me—one of my best friends; she’s amazing, wonderful—but I’m seen creating a distance to protect myself, even from good things.
We also put that distance between us and news stories, and true crime has become entertainment where we don’t feel the whole weight of it. It’s not that I didn’t care, but I had to fully put some distance, and sometimes I would wonder if I was putting too much distance or if I was dehumanizing people to a certain degree. Sometimes I would get people who sent me angry messages about stories I wrote, and I’d have to check myself and ask if that was an insensitive thing to write, or if maybe that detail about how their body was found was not okay to put in print. People want to know so much about the details—but maybe they don’t deserve to know.
Trying to always put distance but not dehumanize is the key. Also not taking it so much to heart that you can’t sleep at night. I did feel personally disturbed and upset by a lot of the stories, but I think I only cried over a few of them. I had a boss once tell me I was one of the only female reporters who didn’t cry, and I guess it’s easier for me to not get upset about stuff like that, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care. I did feel very connected to a lot of the people I wrote about, and I think I get very angry when I see people getting discarded or treated like they don’t matter. That was one of the realizations I had while I was writing this book. I was affected very deeply, to the point where I was getting afraid of people and seeing the world in a bleaker way than I should have —and not that it wasn’t real, it just wasn’t healthy. The amount of true crime I was putting in my brain wasn’t helping me have a good time.
…I would get people who sent me angry messages about stories I wrote, and I’d have to check myself and ask if that was an insensitive thing to write, or if maybe that detail about how their body was found was not okay to put in print. People want to know so much about the details—but maybe they don’t deserve to know.
I noticed that while I was reading the book—it has a chilly ambiance to it, and ends uncertainly. As a memoirist, do you ever feel any pressure to wrap your endings up in a nice little bow?
I’ve been thinking about the ending, too. I wrote the book very soon after its events, and I didn’t really have an optimistic view of wrapping it up. Rereading it recently, I thought, “this is pretty bleak.” I don’t like the pressure to wrap things up in a nice little bow because it’s not real and it’s not a fairy tale and things aren’t perfect. I don’t think of myself as a nihilist per se, but sometimes I think that things just are.
There was no big realization, and that was the problem with the trip, and that’s what was lacking. Being in Italy for three months, I thought I would decide what I wanted to do next, but I still had no clue what I wanted to do. I learned some things, but not so much that I had a big “I was wrong all along” moment. I tried to get the book to reflect how I felt, and I don’t know if that was the right thing to do, but I feel like it would be inauthentic if I just made up that I had some big epiphany.
In other words, there’s no Eat, Pray, Love moment in the book?
I was probably influenced by Eat, Pray, Love very little, to be honest. I fully haven’t read every single page, but I read most of it just to make sure I could reference it. And I watched the movie. There are a few scenes that are a homage with the whole “writer identity” thing, because that is in Eat, Pray, Love. Gilbert identifies as a writer, and the people in the countries she visits are more “doing” and “being” as opposed to career focused. I do appreciate that part of the book, and I did try to not be an asshole when I was rereading it and watching the movie because, even though I’m not into the whole chick flick “perfect situation, idyllic romance,” I was trying to work with what I got out of it.
The need to produce is ingrained in us, and we equate it with our identity and worth as a person. In Eat, Fuck, (Write About) Murder, I was really beating myself up about losing my literary agent. I was feeling like my career was going nowhere. And I was writing on Christmas Eve when I should’ve just been hanging out with people. Despite the awareness that I don’t want to be a workaholic—and that a lot of Americans don’t want to be workaholics—it’s so hard to beat that mindset, and it’s so hard to beat what you are even when you’re actively trying not to. It was so uncomfortable for me to be in Sicily and for nobody to give a shit about my writing at all. They didn’t care that I was a writer, and it never came up in conversation.
And my trip was much bleaker than Gilbert’s. Our generation is much bleaker than hers, which is what I was trying to say in the book, too. Even though I had this career that was pretty good—especially for a writer, I was pretty happy with it—I still couldn’t afford a house, didn’t have a husband and all the things her generation, by her age and my age in this book, normally would’ve had: stable things. Our generation, it’s a lot more fleeting, and these things that prior generations just came to expect as normal, we don’t really have. Some of these things that were easy to attain back in the day just don’t come to millennials and younger generations as much.
The squeaky clean idea that you’re going to reinvent yourself on a trip and find love again is not very realistic in general. It's cool if that can happen, and things like that do happen all the time, but that’s not usual. But you do learn about yourself through traveling, that’s for sure. Things are a lot more nuanced, though. In real life, there was a happy ending. I did end up marrying "Chinga" from the book, who is the main person I wanted to reconnect with, the person I felt the closest to despite hundreds of miles of distance between us. It's hard to fully make the positive connections in front of your face while in the midst of a breakup or any kind of trauma. Those kinds of things put literal and figurative distance between what is solid and real.
If you were to do your trip over again, would you change anything?
I don’t think I would change anything. Even though it was bleak, it was still a lot of fun. It was so cool to get rid of the worst break-up feelings in a different place where I could mess up and not really have to pay the consequences. It was also fun to live somewhere that’s cheaper than living in New York—and to eat really great food. That is something that I do not regret about being there. The only thing is, I wish that I could’ve done more, and I would try to do more if I went back. And try to chill out a bit more and just be. But it’s so hard, especially when you’re alone. I also think I would’ve taken more time off of work because, at the end of the day, that job was great, but that job doesn’t matter. What would it have affected them, or me, if I had just taken an extra five days off and sat around?
The need to produce is ingrained in us, and we equate it with our identity and worth as a person. In Eat, Fuck, (Write About) Murder, I was really beating myself up about losing my literary agent. I was feeling like my career was going nowhere. And I was writing on Christmas Eve when I should’ve just been hanging out with people.
Anywhere else in the world that you’re planning to travel to, or would like to travel?
Oh yeah—I love traveling. “Krystal” from the book has a condo in Columbia, so I’m going to go there and hang out with her. I haven’t been to South America, there are so many places I haven’t traveled to. I haven’t been to Asia or Australia or anywhere in Eastern Europe—well, I've actually been to Bulgaria. I hate the actual act of traveling, like flying and stuff, but I love being in a different country, so if I have the opportunity I would definitely like to travel more. Not to be cheesy, but I think it’s true—every time you travel, you really do learn a lot. I’ve never regretted any time I’ve traveled. I’ve never been like, “I wish I didn’t take that trip.” My parents, who I wrote about in the book, never really left this hemisphere. They never went to Europe, and neither did my grandparents. Just the idea of waiting until you retire—you don’t know if you’re going to make it to retirement age—that’s why in my 20s I was like, “even if I go broke I’m going to make it to Europe.” And I never regretted going into overdraft for traveling because those memories are there and the bank account will always go up again…in theory.
And are there any forthcoming projects—literary or otherwise—you’re excited about?
I’ve been working on trying to find an agent again, and I have a book proposal about reality TV which is completely not dark at all—it’s light and Vanderpump Rules related.
Gina Tron (@ _GinaTron) is an award winning author and journalist. She has written several memoirs and two poetry collections, all of which are available on her website. Her newest memoir is forthcoming from Vegetarian Alcoholic Press and is available for preorder.
Interview conducted by Riah Hopkins (@riah_0_hop).