I'm wonderfully self-lacerating, probably to my character's detriment. I'm terribly open to critique.

With relatively few exceptions, the novel sacrifices too much, for me, on the altar of plot.

I don’t know what’s the matter with me, why I’m so adept at distance, why I feel so remote from things, why life feels like a rumor.

To me, the moment you're talking about nonfiction you're talking about reality.

The absence of plot leaves the reader room to think about other things.

The beauty of reality-based art - art underwritten by reality hunger - is that it's perfectly situated between life itself and (unattainable) "life as art".

Momentum, in literary mosaic, derives not from narrative but from the subtle, progressive buildup of thematic resonances.