In Little Movements, debut novelist Lauren Morrow delivers a deeply felt, emotionally intelligent story about the quiet ruptures that reshape our lives through dance and desire. At the heart of the novel is Layla Smart—a Black choreographer in her thirties who temporarily leaves behind her life in Brooklyn, including her husband, to accept a prestigious residency at Briar House, an elite arts institution nestled in a predominantly white, rural Vermont town. What unfolds is a layered exploration of what it means to pursue artistic fulfillment while navigating systemic bias, personal transformation, and the unpredictable choreography of marriage, identity, and ambition.

Morrow’s prose moves with the same deliberate grace and tension as her protagonist’s work. Through Layla, she captures the nuance of being a Black artist in a space not built with you in mind, and the toll of constantly having to prove your value—on stage, in institutions, and in love. As Layla wrestles with microaggressions, institutional expectations, and the surprise of pregnancy, Little Movements doesn’t offer easy resolutions. Instead, it opens up space for vulnerability, questions, and the many ways ambition and intimacy can coexist—or collide.

Morrow, herself trained in dance, brings a rare physicality to the page. The novel’s central dance—both literal and emotional—is about how to keep moving when the ground beneath you shifts, and how the smallest choices can lead to the most profound changes.

Morrow and I corresponded via email about the novel’s genesis, writing across race and class, how choreography shaped her approach to fiction, and why Little Movements is, above all, a story about agency, embodiment, and the courage it takes to step into the center of your own life.

Cherry Lou Sy: One piece of advice I heard growing up was not to marry an artist. I was reminded of this at the beginning of the book, when Layla steps away from her marriage with Eli, a white man and an unfulfilled artist, in order to pursue this lifelong dream long delayed. What drew you to write about ambition and its conflict with intimacy, especially with another artist who is unable or unwilling to pursue their own aspirations? Do you agree with the advice of not marrying or dating a fellow artist?

Lauren Morrow: Advice is a tricky thing, particularly when it comes to art and relationships. I’ve started to avoid giving and taking it, because everyone’s experience is completely different. I certainly don’t think any rules blanketly apply to everyone. No doubt, there is something romantic and bohemian about the idea of an artistic partnership, and there are so many examples of successful creative couples (and just as many failed; same as couples who aren’t creative). For Layla, though, her desire for comfort and her passion for art have been at odds for her entire life. There are times when the need for financial stability is strong enough to overtake her artistic drive, which I think is a common experience for many, particularly those who don’t come from privilege. Of course, someone with different circumstances or simply a different mindset might be able to dedicate herself to art without hesitation.

And, if Eli’s creative pursuits were more promising, that would change things quite a lot too. One issue is that they’re both starting from the lowest level and trying to work their way up, and her gains, incremental as they are, quickly surpass Eli’s. Plenty of people build successful lives as artists, but I think the struggling artist idea is one that Layla fears.

Money and love and ambition are such complicated bedfellows. There was a time when I envied my artist friends who had partners with high-earning jobs who could support them. I thought that allowed them a freedom that was quite distant from my own experience—particularly over the past five years, as a single person—of hustling and grinding to make it all work. But I’ve come to understand the freedom of being a single, childless artist as well. Your time is your own, to an extent, and if that’s not a privilege, not an opportunity to pursue your ambitions, I don’t know what is.

CS: Another of the oft-repeated words of advice I’ve heard from writing professionals was not to write a prologue. I actually love prologues even though I myself have been advised against them. What made you decide to begin the novel with a prologue? Was it always there?

LM: Ha! Funnily enough, I think I was given the opposite advice (hence my rejection of the idea of advice). The prologue was not always there, and it was not always the prologue that’s now in the book. An early draft began with a scene that takes place in the middle of the book, when the character is back in her Brooklyn apartment, and she’s considering where things are now as compared to when the novel/the residency began. I thought it was interesting, but I don’t know that it worked. A big part of writing (and editing, and editing, and editing) this novel was distinguishing between the two. The current prologue offers a very quick snapshot of where Layla has come from, why she functions in a very particular way, and I hope that makes for a smooth onramp into the narrative. I considered cutting it at a certain point, but so much would need to be changed and explained in order to account for that removal that its value became quite clear.

CS: In many ways, this is a novel about dreams and how expansive or restrictive they can be, depending on whether they are perceived in a positive or negative light. Layla’s mom tells her to “dream medium” after all. But the kind of desire that Layla has—to make it as a Black choreographer on her own terms—means that she has to not only dream big, but negotiate relationships along the way. How did you approach writing relationships between characters, especially Black characters, that are layered, imperfect, and not always about shared identity?

LM: No two humans have the same life experience, and that’s what makes this place interesting (and often terrifying). I knew there needed to be tension moving in all directions, especially between Layla and her dancers, and between the dancers and one another. The dancers are younger, and they’re all from different parts of the country with different backgrounds in every way. So, while they’re all Black, each of them has a different view of the situation they’re in and how they should move forward, which complicates things even more for Layla, who sees them as allies in this isolated Vermont town. It was crucial to have tension and conflict between the various members of the group, to highlight the complication of their situation. There’s no universally right answer, and that’s okay. 

CS: There’s a moment in the book where Layla meets Marcus, a Black journalist from the NY Times who’s at Briar House specifically to interview her. He’s doggedly pursuing uncomfortable questions until she confronts him about his race baiting. He shrugs and says—I’m paraphrasing here—that it’s part of the game. Do you think this type of encounter happens often when Black artists and professionals encounter each other in white spaces? 

LM: This is a particularly challenging moment for Layla, and I don’t know that this exact exchange is something that happens often. But, I think there can be a knowingness involved with being one of just a few Black people within a white space. I’ve been at events or activities where I find myself walking up to another Black person, and we’ll blatantly say, “Hi, couldn’t help but notice you’re Black!” Then we laugh, and introduce ourselves, and learn what brought us here. I’ve also been in situations where there is an assumed connection—on our part or, sometimes quite clearly, by the non-Black people present—but then it’s a flop. You either do the head nod and they don’t, or you start to talk and realize you have nothing in common, nothing at all to talk about. As I mentioned when speaking of the dancers, every single person on the face of the planet is different from the next, and assumptions can sometimes lead us in an uncomfortable direction. 

Regarding that first encounter with Layla and Marcus, that sort of confrontation probably happens on occasion, but it might be somewhat rare in person. I’d bet this sort of thing probably happens a lot online. 

CS: Often, Black art glorified by institutions tends to be trauma-filled and is expected to be so, just as the Board of Briar House expects from Layla in your novel, even though her work doesn’t address racism and trauma directly. Do you see this ever changing?

LM: I do see this changing! There’s been so much conversation around this very issue in recent years that I think it has to. One of the sparks for the book was Erasure by Percival Everett, which I read in 2019 and sort of blew the lid off what I thought I knew about writing. That, of course, became [the movie] American Fiction, which was huge, and I hope between that and [Everett’s latest novel] James, that people are going back to Erasure, because it’s so big and bold. It puts the publishing industry on blast in the most brilliant way, and I think publishing through a small press is how he got away with it (in 2001, no less). This is a roundabout way of saying that a book like that being turned into an Oscar-winning film feels like an indication. And of course, we’re seeing lots of great Black art in every medium—and it’s not just addressing the peaks and the valleys. So many great TV shows, films, plays, dance works, that aren’t rooted in historical trauma—some of these are smaller projects, but I hope their quality and beauty will lead to more resources being put into these works. There’s space for all of it, of course. We can’t deny the past and how much incredible art has been created from unthinkable tragedy. Some of the best art, in fact. But it’s really nice to see the Black mundane being celebrated too.

CS: As someone trained in dance, how did your background in movement shape your writing process—on a sentence level or in terms of structure?

LM: I think about rhythm a lot when I write. Sometimes, I’ll write a sentence that contains the right ideas but isn’t rhythmically aligned with what I had in mind. I like long, run-on sentences followed by fragments and dialogue that sort of leapfrogs. I try to read out loud, though I don’t do it as much as I should. When I do, I hear what’s working and not. This doesn’t always work. Occasionally a more reasonable figure (agent, editor, copyeditor, etc.) will encounter something that feels like a perfect combination—to use a dance term—to my ear. But it actually makes no sense. It takes a village!

CS: You work as a senior publicist for one of the Big Five imprints. How has this informed your own work as a writer? Do you think they complement each other or do they clash?

LM: The big reveal! Yes, after a decade in performing arts publicity, then running off to get my MFA in creative writing at the University of Michigan, I started working in publishing just over three years ago. I like to think I’m good at compartmentalizing, but my innie and outie are not totally divorced from one another. I hope, and believe, these two parts of myself complement each other. I find it so fulfilling to work with other authors, and I think the fact that I’m a writer myself often allows me to understand their perspective—questions, anxieties, etc.—at least to some extent. On the reverse side, I think my role in publicity has been helpful in understanding how to position the book within the larger publishing landscape. 

I began the book while in my MFA program and so wasn’t thinking about the industry side of things yet. When I started in my role, I was in the middle of, probably, the third big revision and beginning to query agents. Being immersed in books—specifically the types of books I might not ordinarily pick up—unlocked something for me. I’ve read more thrillers over the past three years than in my entire life, and I started to see how the authors propelled the reader forward. My natural tendency, at the time, had been a quieter, subtler style, but in one round of revision, I remember tasking myself with ending every chapter in such a way that the reader had to keep going. Not a cliffhanger, necessarily, but a moment that sort of made it impossible to turn away. I certainly think that added challenge—inspired by what I was newly encountering—pushed me forward. 

Also, I think working in this industry has prepared me for what it’s like to be a debut author, which is a strange place to be. There are so many expectations, and because people in your life are excited, they can plant so many ideas in your mind about what life as a debut author is supposed to be. Because I have a pretty clear view of the realities of what it means to be a debut author, I think I’m moving forward with a calmness I might not have if I hadn’t made this career shift. I know what might happen and what might not, and all of it is okay. I’m crossing my fingers but not holding my breath. I’m sleeping pretty soundly. 

CS: What do you hope readers carry with them after finishing the book?

LM: I hope readers leave this feeling like it’s okay to take a big swing. It’s okay to step out on a limb and go for whatever it is you want—or to step away from the thing that isn’t serving you. Change is hard and scary, but what are we doing if we don’t honor who we truly are?