I think of fiction as my mirror. Something I keep pulling out of my pocket to help me see the cracks born deep within me that only show up over time.

Intimacy and dialogue. Reading and writing. They are two sides of the same coin. I write because I read, and I want to respond to the voices that move me.

it feels like a thing my mind goes through when I’m drafting a scene, feeling my way frame by frame through a still image I see in my mind. That’s how I love to write. That’s how I love to see. It’s a form of omniscience, a slow, quiet knowing.

I feel like I’m deceiving, playing a nuanced game, acting as someone different than myself, about to get away with something. Halloween. I feel Halloween all over.

Deep into pandemic, I’m home making coffee and getting into a tub to heal myself from a recent surgery. I haven’t had to go to the hospital in thirty years (of my forty-three on this earth) but the moment the hospitals are overrun with the most catchy virus in one hundred years, I get a little cancer. C’est la vie.