Tommy Orange wasn’t ready for the massive success that came with the 2018 release of his debut novel, There There. The 42-year-old Cheyenne author went from relative obscurity working within the thriving Native American community in his hometown of Oakland, California, to becoming a leading voice in contemporary Indigenous literature seemingly overnight. That New York Times bestseller weaved together the stories of 12 Native characters to masterful effect, earning Orange accolades like an American Book Award, the PEN/Hemingway Award, the John Leonard Prize, and a Pulitzer Prize finalist nod.

His highly anticipated follow-up, Wandering Stars (out February 27), is at once a prequel and a sequel to There There. The tome takes readers back to the Sand Creek Massacre of 1864, a controversial surprise attack where the US Army brutally murdered around 230 Cheyenne and Arapaho people. It then fast-forwards to the next generation’s detention at Pennsylvania’s infamous Carlisle Indian Industrial School, which aimed to “kill the Indian” through forced assimilation. It then leaps ahead to the next generation’s experiences in the aftermath of the powwow shooting that concludes There There.

A lyrical storyteller, Orange addresses the many atrocities tribal communities have faced in what he calls “America’s longest war” waged against Native peoples as well as the many enduring effects of colonialism, such as outsized poverty, addiction, suicide, and violence. In doing so, he brilliantly illustrates how Indigenous individuals are seeking a sense of self and belonging by piecing together the fragments of their familial history, while also grappling with intergenerational traumas.

Although he’s not willing to serve as a spokesperson on behalf of Native America at large—after all, Indigenous cultures are not a monolith, with 574 federally recognized tribes in the United States alone—Orange has embraced his undeniable role in bringing Native issues to the forefront. In conversation with Vanity Fair, he talks about the current Indigenous renaissance, the importance of authentic representation, and the complexities of Indigeneity.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

Vanity Fair: Native Americans often bear the burden of educating others about the atrocities that Indigenous peoples have endured. How do you handle that responsibility?

Tommy Orange: After spending a long time living with people’s incorrect, often offensive versions of what happened historically to Native people in this country, I think writing There There and now Wandering Stars is part of handling that responsibility. I’m trying to tell it in a way that reflects what we know and what historians know to be true. Because historians actually look deeper into history, whereas the general population gets the Pilgrims and Indians story and that’s basically it. I don’t know if it’s any better now, but when my son was in first grade at a public school, he came home with this pamphlet about Pilgrims. We actually changed schools, because we didn’t want him even interfacing with that.

I think what else you’re getting at, though, is when I’m in public and people ask stupid questions or say stupid things, how do I handle the responsibility of being a spokesperson for all of Native America—which is a ridiculous position to be in, because I can’t be that. In the past, sometimes I would get angry or shut down, but now I try to unpack what people say. There have been instances when people are intentionally hurtful, but a lot of times, it’s just ignorance.

Like the use of the word “Indian.” People don’t know what to call us, and I generally explain that we want to be referred to by our tribes. If you’re not Native, don’t use the word “Indian,” because it has been used to harm us. Native people use it because it’s the only word we had for ourselves for a long time, and now we’ve reclaimed it.

I was actually doing an author Q&A session where I said this very thing, and not two minutes later, somebody asks a question and calls us “Indian” in the question. I had to stop them and again explain that there’s a lack of respect for us at a very basic level, because our dehumanization has been institutionalized in our schools. It’s not that I’m genuinely hurt by the word—it’s about lessening the harm and understanding the context of how it has been used to reduce us.

Wandering Stars connects past to present to future in a way that reflects Indigenous intergenerational trauma. Why was it important to tell these stories on a continuum?

Originally, I actually didn’t want to write anything historical, because that’s the way Native people have been portrayed for a very long time. We’re stuck in history, which isn’t helpful for others to understand our complexity. But then I saw this newspaper clipping about Fort Marion [a prison where the US government exiled dozens of Native men in 1865], which led me down this rabbit hole.

In my research, I was looking at the names of the prisoners, and two stuck out. One was Star, because I had already thought of the book title and had a character with that name. The other one was Bear Shield, a name from the There There family that I was also focusing on for Wandering Stars.

So that was just a really surreal moment. I realized I wanted to show how history shows up in the present and write this family line that would end in the aftermath of the powwow in There There. Oscar Hokeah’s Calling For A Blanket Dance does this generational building that I really loved, and reading that book convinced me to attempt to use this story structure for Wandering Stars.

There There thrust you into the spotlight as a leading voice in contemporary Native literature. Did you feel pressure following up on the success of your breakout debut?

Absolutely. I can say fairly objectively that the success of There There was pretty massive, with the book sales and critical acclaim. Then with a sophomore effort, there’s this idea that you have to do equal or better, or else it’s going to be seen as a failure. So in addition to the regular self-loathing and doubt that are part of the writing process, there were all these new voices in my head.

I started writing Wandering Stars three months before There There came out. So by the time it comes out, it will have been six years since I began, which is about the same amount of time There There took. Writing a novel is a hard, complicated process, and in my experience, you can’t just push through it. There are some people who can write a lot of books and write them quickly, and I think everyone sort of secretly hates those people. [laughs] But I do hope I’ve figured out my process a bit better so that my third book doesn’t take six years.

How does your own Indigeneity, including feelings of being “not Native enough,” factor into your writing?

I think it’s something I will always write about. One question I’ve gotten countless times is, “Are you always going to write about Native people?” And the underlying question is really, “Can’t you just write about white people?” There will always be some white people who want stories about themselves, because that’s what they’re used to.

When I first started writing fiction, it was pretty experimental, stream of consciousness, maybe attempting philosophical, probably fairly cringe-inducing. But as soon as I started including my life details in my fiction—which is not to say that I’m writing thinly veiled autobiographical fiction, but rather just dealing with identity—it came with all of my experience and baggage.

As a [Cheyenne and white] biracial person, I’ve thought about being Native and not being Native enough a lot. So my characters are inevitably going to be thinking about what it means to be a Native person in this country too. My third book isn’t related to the first two, but there are still characters dealing with this in an intense way. It’s inextricable from my writing, and I don’t think that’s ever going to change. People write about what matters to them and what they need to process, and that’s been a big part of my life experience.

How do you approach delving into heavy topics like colonialism, genocide, and oppression? Do you practice self-care as part of your writing process?

I think writing about these things is part of self-care, as weird as that sounds. Because I’m trying to think about them in a way that makes them clearer. The revision process is all about clarity: Is what you’re writing about clear to the reader? Are you saying it in a way that’s compelling, that’s imbuing it with meaning and artful care? All of that helps, because the heavy stuff is there whether I process it or not. That’s not to say that writing is therapy, because for me it’s definitely not. I also run a lot as part of my routine.

I’ve dealt with a lot of trauma and addiction in my family, so life has always been heavy for me. Writing about these topics doesn’t feel like a burden, although I think it makes a lot of people uncomfortable because we teach history in this nationalistic way that’s not really helpful for anything other than creating obedient citizens who love their country. I’m trying to undo the white-dominant American narrative.

Since There There debuted, we’ve experienced a racial reckoning and a Native renaissance. When it comes to authentic representation and celebration of Indigenous cultures, do you think we’ve made meaningful progress?

I would say I’m cautiously optimistic, because we’ve seen this before. The fact that there have been multiple renaissances means that there has been multiple deaths of interest in us. There was a spike in interest after the Civil Rights Movement, then another one after Dances with Wolves swept the Oscars, as ridiculous as that sounds. The [2016] Standing Rock protests were really the beginning of this newest renaissance, where it took our elders—who were praying for clean water—being sprayed with ice-cold water in the middle of a North Dakota night to wake people up to our situation. So I just hope the interest doesn’t die out again.

But there’s a lot to be excited about, like Reservation Dogs having Native people not only in front of the camera, which we’ve seen before, but also behind the camera and in the writing room. Lily Gladstone being nominated for an Oscar is also a huge moment on a huge stage, and I hope that leads to more people taking risks with us in ways they wouldn’t have before. I guess maybe There There did that too. Because ultimately this is an industry and there are financial risks when it comes to works of art.

I don’t mean to sound dismal, because what’s happening is unprecedented and really amazing. But we’re also looking at a presidential election year and the possibility of a very anti-Native leader getting another term, which could be really detrimental to us. Still, I think it is a time to celebrate—and there’s more coming from a lot of creative Native people who are doing really exciting things.