SARAH WANG’S DEBUT novel New Skin (2026) follows Linli, the daughter of a plastic surgery addict, whose life is lived in lockstep with her mother’s latest medical catastrophes. Set in Los Angeles, the book traces an exciting yet disastrous period in their lives, when Fanny, Linli’s mother, joins the cast of a reality TV competition in which botched contestants compete for a complete reconstructive makeover. Though she no longer recognizes her mother’s new face, Linli fights, at the cost of her own sanity, to save Fanny from self-destruction. A source of both hilarity and heartbreak, Linli and Fanny’s mother-daughter dynamic propels the novel’s core concerns about identity and belonging. This page-turner features gritty and intelligent analyses of immigration, Americanism, and deadly beauty standards.
I met Sarah in 2021 in a small workshop of Asian American writers. Her work over the years has intersected meaningfully with the dark twists of today’s culture and values, spanning the “lying flat” counterculture movement, precrime surveillance art, and mass shootings. In mid-April, we talked over Zoom about her interest in class issues, her Angeleno upbringing in a predominantly Chinese neighborhood, and opportunities for repair in families and communities that have perpetuated harm.
AMY Y.Q. LIN: New Skin shines a forgiving light on plastic surgery, humanizing the class issues that motivate people on both sides of illegal back-alley basement procedures. How did you become interested in telling their stories?
SARAH WANG: I always start from a place of lived experience and personal interest in the things that trouble me in life, the world, society. Those always begin with growing up in an immigrant family and thinking about issues related to women, single mothers, and poverty. These concerns can live anywhere in the world of fiction. Somehow I used plastic surgery and cosmetic procedures as the room that all these issues take place in. They’re issues that I write about in all of my work.
I admired how your book pairs scholarly ideas like restorative justice with superficial obsessions. You suggest that beauty can be a kind of resistance, especially when marginalized people are otherwise powerless in this country. They can express their ideas through their faces. Where did this thesis come from?
When you’re talking about people who are marginalized, poor, women—who have little agency—I never want to come from a place of condemning the choices they have to make in order to survive. On a human level, everyone does things that aren’t good for them. Understanding why people make the choices they make is more interesting to me than any kind of value judgment. Although, of course, if you enact violence upon another person, there’s a clear line there. But these people are doing things mostly in terms of getting botched plastic surgery and physically harming themselves. Not necessarily even harming, always, but using their body as a site of resistance, as you say, and manipulation.
Because I begin with Fanny as having this preoccupation with her own body, I was thinking of it as any other kind of addiction that deals with the body—like substance abuse, cutting, and eating. There’s no outside eye that can understand why someone does something with their own life. Often, we don’t even understand why we make the choices we do. She has her own reasons. It’s for no one else to judge. If she feels safer and better inside of one body, then that’s absolutely her autonomy.
I really wanted my characters to be able to do whatever they want with their own bodies, even if it’s not always the best choice, or if it gets them into financial trouble. People always want what everyone has and what’s being advertised to them. Undocumented immigrants and impoverished people wanting plastic surgery is just as valid. Everybody wants it now. It’s not uncommon to keep up with the Joneses. That is our beauty industry now.
I have read several of your essays, and you write grimly on many serious topics. Yet this novel is truly funny, gory, and bizarre. What was the process of figuring out how to balance your seriousness with the entertainment biz of writing compelling fiction?
I realized that I have a lot of strong political ideas about incarceration, women’s labor, marginalized people, class, and poverty. In previous versions of the book—of which there have been many—I tried to lead with the ideas. But that didn’t really work, and I had to write many drafts and work with my two editors. What I realize now is that I had to lead with story. Everything else would just follow. If it wasn’t working, it was always because the story wasn’t right in the timing or the stakes or the pacing. Once I realized this, everything came together. The lesson I take away is that the politics and concern and heartache will all come through because it’s you—your writing, your ideas, and your language. Read More… Published LARB