I Think, For One Thing, All Of

When The Clock Stops On A Life, All Things Emanating From It Become Precious, Finite, And Cordoned Off For Preservation. Each Aspect Of The Dead Person Is Removed From The Flux Of The Everyday, Which, Of Course, Is Where We Miss Him Most. The Quarantine Around Death Makes It Feel Unlucky And Wrong--a Freakish Incursion--and The Dead, Thus Quarantined, Come To Seem More Dead Than They Already Are.... Borrowing From The Dead Is A Way Of Keeping Them Engaged In Life's Daily Transactions--in Other Words, Alive.

Happened As I Listened: I Felt Pain. Not In My Head, Not In My Arm, Not In My Leg; Everywhere At Once. I Told Myself There Was No Difference Between Being “inside” And Being “outside,” That It All Came Down To X’s And O’s That Could Be Acquired In Any Number Of Different Ways, But The Pain Increased To A Point Where I Thought I Might Collapse, And I Limped Away.

The World Is Full Of Shitheads, Rhea. Don’t Listen To Them—listen To Me. And I Know That Lou Is One Of Those Shitheads. But I Listen.

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I Haven’t Had Trouble With Writer’s Block. I Think It’s Because My Process Involves Writing Very Badly. My First Drafts Are Filled With Lurching, Clichéd Writing, Outright Flailing Around. Writing That Doesn’t Have A Good Voice Or Any Voice. But Then There Will Be Good Moments. It Seems Writer’s Block Is Often A Dislike Of Writing Badly And Waiting For Writing Better To Happen.