Writing is an ongoing act of discovery, a path that starts from the chaos of the world to find a hidden order within the stories waiting to emerge. For Yari Selvetella, the author of “The Half Hour of Truth”, everything begins while walking: it is in the noise of the city, amidst overlapping voices that then fade away, that the idea of a choral novel takes shape, where each character adds a piece to a collective narrative of love, vulnerability, and the search for meaning.
In this interview, the author takes us behind the scenes of the creative process, explaining how the characters come to life — from Cecilia’s stubborn purity to Valentino Ricci’s neurotic gossiping tendencies — and how the city, never explicitly named but unmistakable, becomes a living entity, reflecting human contradictions. The conversation delves into technology and its broken promises, the unreliable narrator as a mirror of our complicated relationship with truth, and the importance of forgiving ourselves and others for our imperfections. “The Half Hour of Truth” is a novel that invites readers to lose themselves in the labyrinths of consciousness, to question their own certainties, and to be surprised by the unexpected beauty of imperfection. Because, in the end, perhaps it’s not truth that eludes us, but our ability to embrace it without fear.
Where did “The Half Hour of Truth” come from? Is it a book you envisioned this way from the start, or did it surprise you along the way?
Ideas for books come to me while I’m walking. The surrounding noises fade, and the rhythm of my footsteps rises, allowing me to hear my heartbeat more clearly, and that’s how the first words take shape. But they don’t come from nowhere. I believe that a writer, during the early part of their life, already unconsciously knows where they’ll end up as they mature. They fill their drawers with clues and then spend the rest of their years searching for the missing piece, the perfect fit. And when you find it, that’s when you decide you can start writing. It comes suddenly, while walking. That’s how it happened, two or three years ago: I was trying to focus on an idea, but I couldn’t because I was overwhelmed by chatter — speakerphones blaring, supermarket announcements, TVs echoing through open windows, constant ringing and buzzing. This overlapping noise drove me crazy. Then, in a matter of seconds, it vanished, leaving behind a stupefied silence. That’s when I thought: I want to make these voices speak. I want to follow them. So yes, the book surprised me. That’s the most fun part.
Mapping everything out to the last detail is deadly; writing as you go is sacred.
It’s a grand choral novel, with many intertwined voices, stories, and families. How did you develop the characters? And which one is your favorite?
My favorite is Cecilia, the young woman who believes in love even though she doesn’t yet know what it is. But she’s so proud that she wants to live it to the fullest anyway. I adore her purity, with all its risks and contradictions. Overall, I had a lot of fun with the characters in this book. I played with perspectives, subtly shifting the narrative lens from one character to another, always with the gossipy, slightly neurotic attitude I infused into Valentino Ricci’s voice — this first-person narrator as shattered as an old mirror.
Another major character is the city, with its secrets and mechanics. Speaking of Rome, your hometown, is there a hidden truth you discovered about it that left an impact on you?
I’ve always written about Rome, in many ways, across many books. Eventually, anyone who tries to handle (not decode, because that would be impossible) its secrets reaches a point where they realize they no longer need to name it. In fact, the city’s name never appears in this novel. You can only imagine it. The more time you spend here, the more you must imagine it. Curiously, it has never really mattered what Romans write about Rome; external perspectives, the more naive ones, have always been more influential. Rome is the battlefield of everything. We pass through, collect the bullet casings, and count the wounded.
Although Varami is a fictional app, the theme of our trust in digital technology and the culture of instant sharing feels incredibly relevant. How do you personally experience your relationship with this world?
I believe every generation eventually reaches a point of balance with technological evolution and struggles to go beyond it. With boomers, it’s easy to see: for them, it’s all too much; they can’t keep up. But even within each generation, it varies. I think my honeymoon with technology ended in the late ’90s. Text messages, internet searches, cable TV. Perfect. From then on, it felt like an endless chase for me — initial enthusiasm followed by weariness or regret, with more losses than gains.
I say this without nostalgia: I would gladly give up the undeniable benefits of technology for a world without WhatsApp groups or Zoom meetings. In general, if technological innovations are primarily aimed at generating profits and deepening alienation, we lose too much. But if they genuinely served humanity, they could open up incredible possibilities in both economics and art.
At one point in the novel, you write: “But we already know the truth. We just don’t know what the hell to do with it.” What do truth and honesty mean to you?
That line is spoken by a middle-aged man, like me. I feel like many of us hide behind cheap relativism to avoid taking responsibility for reality.
Reading your novel, it’s natural to spot elements of dystopian literature. What are your main influences in this genre?
As a teenager, I read a lot of “high” literature, but I also had fun with sci-fi authors like Richard Matheson and H.G. Wells. In some way, they stayed in my literary DNA. Later, I read Burgess, Bradbury, Dick, but this novel doesn’t exactly sit in that realm. I did love I Am Alive and You Are Dead by Carrère, about Philip K. Dick. Dystopia, though, is just one of many tools to help reality express its dreamlike elements or the aura of its fears. I think of Tanpinar’s The Time Regulation Institute or certain classic works: Gregor Samsa wakes up transformed into a monstrous insect. It’s so tragic, so funny. And it’s just the beginning. Or take Saramago: suddenly everyone goes blind, or people stop dying. That’s where the story starts.
There’s also the theme of the unreliable narrator, prompting readers to question what they think they know. What question would you like readers to ask themselves after finishing your novel?
A novel should always carry this question somewhere: why do we write? But that’s a foundational question not everyone needs to dig into. For this book, maybe I’d like readers to ask themselves: how many stupid things do I say? Shouldn’t I forgive others more?
One line in the novel struck me deeply: “Have you ever been happy?” How do the individual and collective aspects of life, belonging to society and being a singular self, contribute to happiness? Writing, after all, is a very solitary job…
Yes, writing is solitary, and perhaps my personality doesn’t help me share as much as I’d like. It’s the wrong way to feel less alone. But maybe intention matters: believing that other people’s happiness is as important as your own.
If you could ask one yes-or-no question and get a true answer, like with the Varami app, what would you ask?
Probably this: is it true that I couldn’t have done more?
The book(s) on your nightstand right now?
I’m reading Alicia Gallienne’s poems. Her tragic life and the chaotic journey of her publication made me fear I’d love her for the wrong reasons. But instead, it’s the blinding light of her verses that is the right reason.
What’s the last thing you discovered about yourself through writing?
That I can be very disciplined.
Your happy place?
A real island, somewhere in the Mediterranean, though I haven’t decided which one yet. It smells of helichrysum and juniper. And you can hear the wind, the wind and nothing else.
Thanks to Mondadori
What do you think?