Guest Post: Ashley Wilda on The Night Fox

Ashley Wilda (writer, musician, rock climber, artist) was my student at VCFA—I have memories of her tender stories and her careful attention to voice and emotions. Now I’m happy to welcome her YA novel, The Night Fox, which Kirkus hails as an “evocative, imaginative story about our emotional landscapes and the quest for mental health and independence.” It’s a book whose fragile teen character lives in the borderlands between grief and healing, set against a landscape that offers both acknowledgement and redemption.

I invited Ashley to write a guest post on the making of this book. Here’s what she wrote:

“I don’t know if I can do this.” That’s what I said to my husband after reading the editorial letter for The Night Fox. There was one major problem - I had too many walls.

At first glance, it seemed like a story problem. Scenes that weren’t shown, characters that didn’t interact enough. But the real issue? There were important places where I was holding back.

But those walls were there to protect me. From the grief, the memories. When I pressed against those places in the story, I felt… blank. Like some invisible force held me back.

How was I going to uncover the raw emotional truth the story needed, if I couldn’t even go there myself?

Let’s rewind for a sec. This story begins with a girl who believed her writing was broken.

When I started grad school for creative writing, I was scared. I hadn’t planned on my life and health falling apart and honestly didn’t know if I could write anymore. All I’d managed to write was poetry, trying to make sense of the pain that had taken over my life.

Photo courtesy of Ashley Wilda

Then, I listened to a graduate lecture at VCFA by Mercer Black about grief and the writing process. About the stories we NEED to write, for ourselves. The stories we may be avoiding.

The stories we may be afraid to dig deep and tell.

I slipped out at the end of the lecture and found myself in the farthest corner of the library basement, surrounded by the musty smell of old books. I sobbed. I cried for all the pain I was living through, for the story I wanted to write, for the fear of writing it. But I knew I had made up my mind.

When I left that library, I started writing what would become The Night Fox.

Writing about grief is really freaking hard. I started writing The Night Fox because I had to, for myself. But also because when I was going through the darkest time in my life, it was the book I wish I had. The book I couldn’t find. And on the chance that someone else out there was going through something similar… I had to write it for them too.

The work was beautiful and tender and sharp-edged… and I mostly kept it to myself. I knew one day other people would read it. But for the moment… I couldn’t really imagine that without getting freaked out.

The story was unconventional to be sure - between the magic and the faith elements and the dual narrative arcs and poetry thrown in there to boot, I worried the story wouldn’t find a home. It didn’t fit neatly into a box… but that was the point. Neither does grief, or love.

The first business day after the manuscript went out, I learned a senior editor at Penguin was interested. I cried. The hurt and the beauty were all twisted up inside with hope, and I couldn’t wait to see what happened next.

Then, the editorial letter came. And once again, I was stuck with a story I didn’t know how to write.

I returned to my beloved VCFA as a graduate assistant for the summer residency and sat with my feelings. I soaked in the craft and the astounding courage of the community. I pulled it all in until I felt full. Then I sat down. And cried. And wrote out a plan.

Sitting in the faded blue armchair at my favorite coffee shop, I finally arrived at the part of the story that was hardest for me. It wasn’t the climax or the flashiest part. But for me, it hit the deepest.

I wrote the scene.

I hurried to pack my things.

I made it to my car and closed the door.

And I sobbed.

That’s the thing, writing about grief. You may be writing fiction. But the feelings are real. You know it’ll be worth it, in the end. To tell the story you need to tell, to reach the reader who desperately needs that particular story. But I’m not going to lie - it hurts.

Turns out, that final revision was my best work yet.

So to all my writers who feel broken, invisible, opposing realities held in one beautiful, flawed body… don’t give up. Somewhere, someone needs the story you have yet to tell. Don’t give up on you.

Writing is hard. We are all flawed. Fiction can open minds and touch lives. Thank you, Ashley.