Home Is The Place Where, When You

No Matter What You Wear, Not Everyone Is Going To Understand What You're Saying.

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.

When My Husband First Read A Draft, He Said, "you Spend Too Much Time Describing The Characters' Outfits." He Was Right. I Removed Much Of The Clothes Talk, But Quite A Bit Remained.

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.

When I Was Writing My First Draft, And Feeling Grandiose, I E-mailed An Artist/clothing Designer I Know And Suggested We Collaborate On A Fashion Line Inspired By The Outfits My Characters Wore. I Regret That We Never Did That.