chatting with anna johnston

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Thanks for the chat, Anna,

The Borrowed Life of Frederick Fife blends warmth, humor, and heartbreak. This is an unforgettable character. How did his voice come to you, and how did you work to craft that POV on the page?
Although not a carbon copy, Frederick was inspired by my gorgeous, cheeky late grandfather and best friend, whose kindness genuinely changed the lives of those around him. He had time for everyone and an ability to make people feel seen. He also had a fabulous sense of humour and was honest to a fault—so honest, in fact, that he found it impossible even to play a card game that required bluffing. That unwavering sense of integrity sits at the centre of Frederick’s character and became the foundation of his voice.
Writing Frederick felt less like invention and more like listening. His perspective arrived early and fully formed, and I knew immediately that his inner life needed to be rich, observant and quietly funny, even as the world increasingly overlooked him. He understands himself through his values rather than through how others perceive him, which gives the voice both steadiness and warmth.

The novel explores aging, invisibility, and dignity. Why were these themes important for you?
Ageing, particularly in institutional settings, often comes with a quiet erasure. People are reduced to diagnoses, routines and risks rather than recognized as whole human beings with histories, humour and agency. Having worked in aged care, including dementia-specific care, I saw how deeply this invisibility can wound.
Dignity isn’t just about safety or cleanliness—it’s about being seen, heard and valued. I wanted to write a story that restored complexity and humanity to older people, and to challenge the assumptions we make about what someone is still capable of simply because of their age or diagnosis.

Did you set out to challenge assumptions, or did that emerge organically?
I’ve always been a positive aging advocate and so I think that emerges naturally in my writing. I wanted to question the assumptions we make about ageing and dementia—particularly the idea that a diagnosis signals the disappearance of a person’s inner life. Too often, people are spoken about rather than spoken to, reduced to what they can no longer do instead of recognised for who they still are.
Rather than confronting those assumptions directly, I let them unravel through Frederick’s lived experience. By staying close to his perspective, the novel invites readers to notice how easily someone can become invisible, and how much richness, humour and awareness can still exist beneath that invisibility.

 Frederick’s inner life contrasts sharply with how the world sees him. How did you approach writing that tension without slipping into sentimentality?
I approached that tension through restraint and trust. Frederick isn’t defined by a diagnosis; he’s defined by how the world responds to him. Much of the quiet ache in the novel comes from being misread, underestimated, and overlooked, despite his clear and richly inhabited inner life.
On the page, that meant staying close to what Frederick notices—tone, gesture, small kindnesses and casual cruelties—and resisting the urge to explain or justify him. I wanted his observations to speak for themselves, allowing the contrast between who he is and how he’s perceived to emerge naturally.
What anchors the story is the way Frederick meets others where they are. He responds with patience, humour, and unconditional kindness, even when that generosity isn’t reciprocated. By trusting his voice, I trusted the reader to see what he sees, and to feel the tenderness and injustice of that gap without it ever needing to be spelled out. By allowing the emotion to arise without explanation or embellishment, the tension could remain honest rather than sentimental.
 
 
Humor plays a crucial role in the novel. How plot in order to  balance humor with grief and loss in a way that feels earned rather than deflective?
For me, humour isn’t a way of avoiding grief—it’s a way of surviving it. I often think of the phrase, ‘when life gives you lemons, make lemonade’. To make lemonade, you need sugar, and for me humour is that sugar—making the bitter sweet and the unbearable bearable. Some of the strongest emotional moments happen when sadness and humour sit side by side; that’s how life often feels, particularly in difficult or uncertain circumstances.
On the page, that meant being deliberate about placement. Humor grows out of observation and timing rather than jokes or punchlines, and it never punches down or intrudes at the height of grief. Instead, it sits alongside the sadness, offering moments of light without cancelling the weight beneath. That balance felt true to life and allowed the emotional moments to feel earned rather than forced. Frederick’s humour is gentle and human, not performative—it gives the reader space to breathe, so when the grief arrives, it can land fully.

Frederick’s memories shape much of the narrative. How did you decide when to lean into the past versus staying rooted in the present?
Memory is where Frederick still has freedom. The past offers him agency, dignity and connection in ways the present often denies him. I knew the ending of the novel from the very beginning, and that knowledge shaped how and when memory appeared on the page. Each memory carries momentum toward an ending that was always waiting.

What were the hardest scenes for you to write—and why?
A scene that involves grief or the death of a character. I’m a deeply empathetic person, and I’ve realised that empathy doesn’t stop with real people—it extends fully to my characters! When they grieve, I grieve. When they suffer, I feel it. Those scenes often left me weeping at my computer.
As a writer, that emotional connection is also my most important compass. It’s how I know whether a story is working. Far more than word count, I pay attention to whether I feel something on the page. If I’m not moved, I can’t expect the reader will be either. Sitting with that emotion—however uncomfortable—felt essential to writing those moments honestly and with care.
Though their names were given to the characters of Fred and Dawn, my grandparents’ actual story more closely mirrored that of Albert and Val, with my grandfather living in a nursing home with dementia and my grandmother visiting him. They truly had a love story for the ages, so any scenes reflecting this carried a great deal of emotion for me.

How did you know when Frederick’s story was complete? Did you know the ending before you started writing, or did the ending evolve?
I knew the ending from the very beginning, and it was one of the first scenes I wrote. Having that fixed point gave me confidence as I moved through the story, even when the middle felt uncertain or messy.
I knew Frederick’s story was complete when he had come full circle. At the beginning, he is a man with love and care to give, but nowhere to place it. By the end, he once more has someone to give the froth on his cappuccino to. That small, ordinary gesture felt like everything to me—it signalled connection, purpose, and a life still being lived.
I also wanted the ending to hold hope, not just for Frederick but for all the characters. Each of them needed to be changed by what had unfolded—not transformed into someone else, but shifted. A little softer, a little braver, a little more open than where they began.

What craft lessons did The Borrowed Life of Frederick Fife teach you that you’ll carry into future projects?
To finish your first draft without looking back. That was the most important lesson for me. Stopping to polish prose while the story is still forming is like icing your cake batter.
Once the draft exists in full, the real work can begin. That’s where the magic happens: in the editing. Writing to the end gives you something complete to shape and refine, allowing themes to sharpen, characters to deepen, and the language to be polished with intention rather than uncertainty.

What do you hope readers take with them after closing the final page?
I hope readers come away with a renewed sense of compassion—an understanding that unconditional kindness, meeting people where they are without judgement or impatience, can change lives. In a post-pandemic world that continues to echo with fear, conflict and uncertainty, that feels more important than ever. I also hope the book encourages greater respect for older people, reminding us that ageing does not strip a person of depth, humour or emotional richness. Older people carry whole lives within them—histories, loves, mistakes and memories—and they deserve to be seen as complete human beings, not as problems to be managed or stages to be endured.
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For those living with dementia, I hope the story invites a gentler gaze. Even as memory changes, personhood remains, and compassion, patience and connection continue to have power.
Above all, I hope the book quietly ‘Spreads the Fred’—a spirit inspired by my grandfather, whose kindness shaped this story. To me, it means noticing those who are too often overlooked, choosing generosity where it might otherwise be withheld, and trusting that small, everyday acts of kindness can still have a profound impact. If the novel leaves readers a little softer, more attentive, and more willing to meet others with grace, then it has done exactly what I hoped it would.

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