I want a real encounter with something true and disconcerting about peoples' natures.
It was sad and fierce all at once, alive with a lonely purity.
It remains unbelievable to me that I have any readers beyond my own blood relations - it's a crazy, wild gift.
Could we betray our parents by going back to them?
I tended to be drawn to the weirder, darker stuff. Horror and sci-fi anthologies.
Any place, then, can become a cemetery. All it takes is your body. It's not fair, I think, and I get this petulant wish for ugly flowers and mourners, my mother's old familiar grief. Somebody I love to tend my future grave. Probably this is the wrong thing to be wishing for.