I Never Wanted To Be Mainstream As

God, I Hate My Family, These People I Never Chose To Love, But Love All The Same.

I'm Starting To Think My Narrators' Sentences Are Getting Too Big For Them, And They Are Getting To Sound A Bit Samey And, More Disturbingly, A Bit Too Much Like Me.

I Think Writers Worry That You Might Not Exist In Some Strange Way If You're Not Writing.

There Is Something Wonderful About A Death, How Everything Shuts Down, And All The Ways You Thought You Were Vital Are Not Even Vaguely Important. Your Husband Can Feed The Kids, He Can Work The New Oven, He Can Find The Sausages In The Fridge, After All. And His Important Meeting Was Not Important, Not In The Slightest.

It Is Very Hard To Trace The Effect Of Words On A Life.