In her 2007 review of Dalia Sofer’s debut novel, Claire Messud predicted The Septembers of Shiraz had the makings of a classic: sophisticated writing, compelling characters and the kind of nail-biter plot readers don’t always find in “literary” novels. Two years later, with much of the world focused (again) on Tehran, Sofer’s novel about a family living in Iran immediately after the country’s 1979 revolution seems especially timely, and no less beautiful.

Sofer, an Iranian-born author who studied French Lit at NYU and earned an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College, will make her first appearance at Old Dominion’s Literary Festival Tuesday, Oct. 6, at 4 p.m. in the University Village Bookstore. AltDaily’s Mary Westbrook caught up with her to ask her about her novel, the challenges of writing books in the age of mass distraction, and the dangers of asking any fiction writer to speak for an entire country.

AltDaily: If you weren’t a writer, what would you be?

Dalia Sofer: I think photography, if done well, can capture the world and its people and their emotions — the way fiction can. And as in a good story or novel, a good photo often has many narratives going on simultaneously. But there are differences too. The most obvious is that photography is visual and does not use words. Another is that you literally have one instant to capture a photo. Famously coined by Henri Cartier-Bresson as the “decisive moment,” whereas in fiction you can revisit the same passage countless times. Photography is a more aggressive act, as it requires you to interact with the world and “capture” your slice of it. Fiction is perhaps more internally aggressive, because the gaze is turned inward.

How does a story usually start for you?

With an image, an impression, or even a sentence. Often this has to do with a given character. Then I take some cursory notes about possible situations this character could find him- or herself in. But I’m not a planner. When I sit down to write, I let myself be surprised by what emerges, which is usually completely different from what I had anticipated. It’s that element of surprise that I love and which drives me. Like the workings of memory, writing for me is non-linear—one element leads to the next, revealing emotions that I wasn’t even aware of.

How long did you work on your debut novel, The Septembers of Shiraz? How did you balance the writing and the research?

It took me seven years from beginning to publication. I researched while writing, alternating between the two. I know writers who research everything first and then sit down and write the story. I don’t work that way. Because I explore things as I go along, I’m constantly finding new areas to research.

In writing the book, did you ever reach a point of real frustration, a place where you couldn’t see your way through?

Of course. There were many frustrations along the way. I’ve found that the best way to deal with these obstacles is to ease the pressure, rather than to push harder. There are times when an idea or a scene needs time to percolate, and you have to let it do that. Pushing toward a forced resolution only creates half-baked results. At the same time you have to be careful not to let go completely, because it will become that much harder to return. It’s a delicate internal dance, and it isn’t always easy. It takes a lot of practice.

For all of its tension, The Septembers of Shiraz is filled with tenderness, even humor. Can you talk about how you struck a balance between tension and lightness?

I did this very instinctively. It’s probably because in life I often see humorous or ridiculous details even in very grave situations, and I see darkness surrounding seemingly humorous situations. I had a fairly good sense of when the story was becoming too dark and was in need of some lightness. It’s the way I imagine music is written.

Your characters are utterly human. That is to say, they each are complicated, not all bad, not all good. Which character changed the most (from the novel’s inception to its completion) and which character changed the least?

I don’t think that any of them changed drastically, but I did find that there were things that they would or would not do. For example, I realized at some point that Isaac needed to be more calculating in trying to secure his release from prison, because that would be more consistent with who he was and how he had become successful in his life. I also felt that depicting the guards and torturers as just pure evil wasn’t very interesting. I knew that even they have a story. Everyone has a story, after all.

When The New York Times interviewed you last July, you said, “I think because I am from Iran, there is an expectation that I will continue writing about Iran. I may write about it again or I may not…” Do you sometimes feel as if people see you as a spokesperson for Iran or for an entire region? Does a writer have a  responsibility to act as an educator, diplomat or spokesperson?

That depends on the kind of writing one is engaged in. Perhaps a historian has that responsibility, as does a journalist. But I don’t think a novelist has that responsibility. If a novel ends up educating or shedding light on something, then that’s great. But in my opinion that should never be the original intent.

Do you have advice for writers who are writing for an American audience, but setting their stories outside of the U.S.? What are the challenges of doing so?

There is always the danger of falling into clichés when setting a story in a foreign place. The writer needs to be aware of very concrete details in order to make that setting  palpable to the reader. It’s easy to turn to the exotic or the quaint, and that always makes for very mediocre writing. Let’s say you are setting a story in Italy. To just write that there are Vespas everywhere and everyone is sipping espressos isn’t very interesting! You need to ask yourself, OK, what else? Well, here’s an example of an intriguing detail: at the Palazzo Chigi in Rome, where Berlusconi holds press conferences, the exposed nipples of a nude in a painting by Giambattista Tiepolo  were airbrushed last summer in order to preserve Berlusconi’s dignity (yes, Berlusconi, of all people!) This little fact alone — and the polemic that it engendered among the population — says a whole lot more about the culture than the Vespas and espressos ever could.

What is the best writing advice you’ve gotten, and what is the worst?

One of the best advice came from Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast: “All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.” Regarding bad advice, I think the old adage “write what you know” isn’t always helpful. Part of the joy of writing is exploring what you don’t know.

A writer’s biggest challenge today is…

… shutting off all the noise. We live in a period when everyone wants to be seen and heard all the time. But at the end of the day, you have to ask yourself why you are writing. Is it just for attention, for affirmation, some kind of substitute for real connection? That’s a tricky territory. I think nowadays writers rarely turn inward and go deep inside themselves to figure out what it is that they really want to say, and how they should best say it. I think everyone needs to slow down.

Hear Dalia Sofer read from her work during Old Dominion University’s 32 Annual Literary Festival on Tuesday, Oct. 6, at 4 p.m. in the University Village Bookstore. Go here for the full Lit Fest schedule.