Are there are fireflies on the West Coast? I never saw any when I lived in California.

Henry James claim that if you want to be a novelist you should be somebody on whom nothing is lost.

My concern is how we live fictions, how fictions have real effects, become facts in that sense, and how our experience of the world changes depending on its arrangement into one narrative or another.

I've been building a fiction in part around the Marfa poem since my brief residency there, which has kept it from receding into the past.

I don't think "I'm going to publish this as fiction" but I think "I'm going to tell this story to a friend" and then I start telling the story in my mind as the experience transpires as a way of pretending it's already happened.

What interests me about fiction is, in part, its flickering edge between realism and where a tear in the fabric of a story lets in some other sort of light.

I guess when I'm frightened or in pain or maybe very bored I've tried to hold myself together by imposing a narrative order on the experience as it happens.