I Love This Idea Of The Body

I Don't Think Fake People Living In A Fake House In A Fake Suburb Are Any Less Dismissible Or Believable Than A Fake Psychic Attending A Fake School In A Fake Town. Nothing's Inherently Believable About Any Kind Of Fiction, Because All Of It's Untrue.

I Obviously Read And Adore Traditional Fiction. I Teach Traditional Fiction, I Also Teach All Kind Of Not-so-traditional Fiction. And Since I'm Such A Plot Buff, And I'm Really Such A Narrative Buff, I Can't Seem To Relinquish My - Not Just Reliance - But Excitement About Those Traditional Techniques.

I Needed To Understand This Random Bad Bit Of Luck As Part Of A Bigger Design. Otherwise I Was Suffering Meaninglessly. This Made The Suffering A Lot Worse.

I Have A Daughter Who, When Younger, Possessed No Barrier Between Her Emotional Self And The Outside World. Her Emotional Insides Spilled Out All Over, And, Especially When I Was Sleep-deprived And Probably A Little Paranoid, This Really Threatened Me. It Was As If She Were Embodying And Expressing The Insecurities And Freaked-outedness I Never Express, And Which I've Learned Over The Years To Keep Hidden.

I Tell Myself It's A Virtue, My Failure To Sleep In My Own House, Or At All. I Tell Myself That I Spend More Hours Than Most People Aware That I Am Alive, And That Over A Lifetime This Adds Up To More Living, More Aliveness. I Am More Alive Than The Rest Of My Family. Which Is My Greatest Night Fear. Which Is Why I Hunt. I Don't Ever Want To Be More Alive Than They Are.