A Food Truce, The Picnic Suspension Of

Granana Doesn't Understand What The Big Deal Is. She Didn't Cry At Olivia's Funeral, And I Doubt She Even Remembers Olivia's Name. Granana Lost, Like, Ninety-two Million Kids In Childbirth. All Of Her Brothers Died In The War. She Survived The Depression By Stealing Radish Bulbs From Her Neighbors' Garden, And Fishing The Elms For Pigeons. Dad Likes To Remind Us Of This In A Grave Voice, As If It Explained Her Jaundiced Pitilessness: "boys. Your Grandmother Ate Pigeons."

When I Was Younger I Used To Lock Myself In The Bathroom And Read In The Dry Tub. I Was Also A Fan Of The 'shoe Closet.' Reading Felt Thrilling And Illicit And Deeply Private To Me, And I Felt Vulnerable Doing It In Public.

Once You Figure Out What's Best For The Story, Take Out The Rest.

Fiction Helps Me To Reconnect With The True, Deep Weirdness Inherent In Everyday Reality, In Our Dealings With One Another, In Just Being Alive.

My Older Sister Has Entire Kingdoms Inside Of Her, And Some Of Them Are Only Accessible At Certain Seasons, In Certain Kinds Of Weather. One Such Melting Occurs In Summer Rain, At Midnight, During The Vine-green Breathing Time Right Before Sleep. You Have To Ask The Right Question, Throw The Right Rope Bridge, To Get There-and Then Bolt Across The Chasm Between You, Before Your Bridge Collapses.