the pile is always bottomless

tbr pile

There will always be books to read. When I was younger there was a thrill in entering Waldenbooks. For hours, I’d get lost in the stacks or find a place in which to hide with my pile of books that I was already in the thick of reading. We didn’t have malls in Brooklyn–King’s Plaza–but nothing significant, and when my family moved to Long Island, malls awed me. They were gleaming and grand, and even though I couldn’t afford anything in the stores I’d still wander through them. They all had that new car smell. Sometimes I’d splurge on an Auntie Anne’s cinnamon sugar pretzel, slathered in hot butter or I’d feast on a Johnny Rockets cheeseburger back when I believed Johnny Rockets made a good burger. This was before the world. This was before context and seemingly endless choices. This was when Waldenbooks had the best books.

Back then I didn’t know what a “literary canon” meant. I didn’t know that there were writers you had to read or know. I read what interested me. I read Dostoyevsky alongside Pat Conroy and Alice Eliott Dark. I picked up Ann Beattie’s Where You’ll Find Me because the cover put me on pause. It was austere, bleached bone, and somber. I liked Flowers in the Attic and found Flowers for Algernon, and realized that maybe they weren’t so dissimilar. I read all of Ayn Rand until I realized that Ayn Rand was a bucket of crazy even if she knew how to tell a story. What I read was pretty much determined by my reaction to the first page of a book. If I didn’t like the first page or even the first sentence, why bother? I asked cashiers to recommend books based on ones I’d read and enjoyed. I read books mostly written by men because that’s what I read throughout high school and college. I was taught that men wrote the “big books”, the “great stories” while women wrote the quiet ones. It wasn’t until I was 24 and in the writing program at Columbia did I encounter bombastic, brilliant women. Joan Didion, Susan Sontag, Virginia Woolf (and no, I’d never read her work until graduate school), Gertrude Stein, Carole Maso, Maxine Hong Kingston, Toni Morrison, Mary Gaitskill, Grace Paley, Alice Munro, and I could go on. Until then I read books written by the dead, mostly, with some genre and sparse contemporary fiction for good measure. It’s hard to explain that there was a bliss in this ignorance, of not being aware of canon and the writers “one should read” (although now I think all of it is pretty much subjective bullshit, anyway).

Until then I read books written by the dead, mostly, with some genre and sparse contemporary fiction for good measure. It’s hard to explain that there was a bliss in this ignorance, of not being aware of canon and the writers “one should read” (although now I think all of it is pretty much subjective bullshit, anyway).  Until then I didn’t know the disdain that “literary fiction” writers had for genre fiction, the tension between the books that sold well and were reviewed well. I didn’t put too much stock in book reviews because I frequently disagreed with them. I liked books people didn’t like and hated ones people revered. I read what pleased me and it would take me well over a decade to undo the snobbery I had taken for truth. Now I read whatever satisfies me in the present moment and know that a book’s value lies in the way that it gives a certain kind of pleasure to the reader or how it transforms them in some unimaginable way. I read mostly to see the world through someone else’s prism, and I write to make sense of the world in which I exist, a world that is often wonderful, frightening and confusing. I read and write to see what could be done with language, how it could be architecture or surgery.

I’ve read 52 books this year, most of them written by women, many of them poetry collections and children’s books. I love the latter because both genres require a velocity and precision that’s demonstrably absent from other genres. A child has a short attention span so the work of a children’s book lies in both the economy and simplicity of language balanced by story movement and images that transport the child into an imaginative place. People who think children’s books are easy to write are fucking bonkers. I wouldn’t dare because I’d complicate the story in some way or use an image that would send a toddler to psychotherapy. I tend to look at safe objects and wonder how I can make them unsafe or unsettling–if that doesn’t happen on the page for me, I’m not interested in the characters or story. For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we can just barely endure, and we stare in awe of it as it coolly disdains to destroy us. Every angel is terrifying, Rilke writes in the first of the ten Duino Elegies.

George Saunders says that a real writer makes you feel uncomfortable, he’s kind of a freak. “Uncomfortable moments are not without value…because they make you feel luminous”. And I agree with that. The stories that have remained with me have made me feel unsettled, uncomfortable or uneasy in some way. I cleave to difficult, broken people. I like writing and reading about them.

I’m not blog-famous, and that’s okay. I don’t have a literary community and haven’t found these communities to be particularly inclusive and supportive though I dare say they would say they are all the way to the grave. I find most best-of book lists to be ridiculous because best is merely a subjective reflection of one’s taste and cultural access (or lack thereof). So I think about next year, what I’ll read and write, and I have an urge to re-read the Classics because no one does tragedy and pillaging better than the Ancient Romans and Greeks. I want to read stories that wouldn’t easily slip into my purview (meaning, I have to do the work in finding works in translation, works from POC, those not aligning with a binary gender). I want to read more children’s books and poems because both give me great joy in moments of grave darkness.

In terms of writing, I want to create stories that straddle genres. I love the blurred lines between fiction and non-fiction and the fallibility of memory. I’ve become oddly curious about dark matter and neurology and not sure how that will factor in. I still like my broken, flawed women and will continue to champion dark stories and characters even when the world tells me that they won’t sell, no one will read them. Next year I’d like to collaborate with a visual artist in some way, get better at taking pictures, and allow for different, varied voices in my work. Moreso than I’ve been writing as of late.

Sometimes I think back to those days in the mall, on the floor of Waldenbooks. I think about how much I didn’t know, and even though much has filled the space between that girl then and that woman now, there’s still so much to learn. There’s always so much to know in the brief time we’re able to know it. So this is the work. Always be the student and never posture as a pure teacher.


on my bookshelf: reading the dead


I’ll let you in on a secret: when I first started the master’s program at Columbia, I felt small. I felt stupid. Here I was surrounded by people who’d attended the finest private schools and the most prestigious of Ivy’s, who were as well-versed in contemporary fiction as in obscure 14th Century poets, and I was a reformed banker who read Bret Easton Ellis and the dead. I felt like an imposter in workshop–how did I get in here?–for the form and structure, the basic architecture of writing, was lost on me. My approach to books and story writing was raw, unfinished, and I was overwhelmed by the gleaming, the seemingly poised and polished.

At 24, I felt behind. I was desperate to catch up.

Over a period of a few years (punctuated by a time when I took leave from the program because my life had spiraled beyond my control), I devoured books at a rate that would only be described as astonishing. W.G. Sebald, Joan Didion, Virginia Woolf, Edmund Wilson, Oliver Sacks, Borges, Rick Moody, Raymond Carver, Amy Hempel, Ian McEwan, Marquez, Nathan Englander, Lorrie Moore, Michael Cunningham–the confluence of the living, and the long and respected dead, overwhelmed me, and for the decade of my 20s I read not because I enjoyed books but because I wanted to appear as learned as my peers. I wanted to fit, blend in. And while I discovered authors who would forever alter the way I view fiction and my approach to writing it (hello, Joan Didion, Kazuo Ishiguro, Gary Lutz), my desires were more from a state of urgency than self-investment.

Giving zero fucks is liberating.

I don’t roll with the “smart set”. I’ve few friends from my time at Columbia and even fewer from my stint in publishing. Now I surround myself with wonderful, strange people who challenge and support me. I no longer want the Knopf deal and the requisite story in The New Yorker (although I wouldn’t kick either out of bed); I’m okay with publishing only a second book in my lifetime while writing on this space. After years of hungering for the world and everything in it, I’m finally content with playing small, yet significant.

I’ve finally returned to the voracious joy of reading books like I’d had when I was younger. I read what pleases me rather than follow the trend of reading the right books, which speaks more to privilege than anything else. Lately, I’ve had to balance planning a major move and life change with a great deal of client work and scheduling all the doctor appointments I’d been ignoring for the past two years, all of which leaves little time for rest. When stress mounts and I have to schedule “me” time, I’m finding that spending time with the dead is comforting.

Over the past few weeks I’ve read Maeve Brennan’s The Rose Garden (I discovered Maeve’s work after reading Spinster, and this remarkable collection reminds me of Cheever and does not disappoint), Beryl Markham’s memoir West with the Night (I hope to live 10% of her magnificent life), and I’m knee-deep into Somerset Maugham’s The Razor’s Edge (I found this novel on the street and I love, love, LOVE it). I’m bringing George Eliot with me when I travel to Asia next month, and if I need a break I’ll read a contemporary story that touches on the dead.

cue the chariots of fire theme song: a woman has written a novel!

I can’t write or think about anything else except for the fact that I’ve finished a draft of my novel, Follow Me Into the Dark. Words cannot express how proud I am of this book, which took four years to develop and over a year to write. What started out as a strange story about a woman setting another woman’s hair on fire morphed into a book about familial love, physical and emotional hurt, mental illness, feminism, identity and loss. The story centers around two broken children, Kate and Jonah, and how they bear the weight of two generations of mental illness and abuse (and I’d say collapse as a result of it). While the story and characters are important, I’m excited about the novel’s form. I’ve created a nesting doll, triptych structure, where I’ve employed alternating voices and allusions to speeches (think: Jim Jones, the cult leader, not the rapper; Ophelia’s final soliloquy to Hamlet, among others), poetry (think: Edna St. Vincent Millay, Nick Flynn, T.S. Eliot, Walt Whitman, etc) and lines from novels that serve to provide a deeper cultural, moralistic and sociological context for the reader.

I sent the draft to my agent, so here’s hoping for good news. However, I have to keep reminding myself that the achievement is in finishing a book of which I’m proud, not the industry that happens as a result of it.

books you need to be reading


People often ask me about my time in Columbia’s MFA program: what workshop was like, and what about all those incredible teachers. However, mostly I grumble about student loan debt, my addiction that overshadowed a great first year in the program, and how my return had been marred by a new crop of writers, who were obsessive about technique and line writing. In retrospect, I was far too young, at 24, to walk into a program and have my writing ripped to shreds by complete strangers. I had no formal training, no sense of technique; I didn’t “publish,” I majored in finance and marketing in college, and I had just left an investment bank where I told my managing director that MFA wasn’t an acronym for Masters in Finance.

That first year, in 2000, was exhilarating, and scary, and unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I got into the program by writing a series of stories about my mother, and as I sat through scores of classes taught by famous teachers, it suddenly occurred to me that I was rough around the edges. I thought a story wasn’t a story until someone suffered or died. I mostly read the dead because that’s what I’d been exposed to all my life. I had no inkling for anything in contemporary literature.

I do remember the writer who called me that night in Long Island. Her name was Judy Budnitz, and I asked her several times during the course of our conversation whether this was a practical joke. No, she assured me, she had been on the committee that decided who would be admitted to Columbia, and she called me personally because she thought my work, while raw, had promise.

When I arrived, I was exposed to so many names it was dizzying at first. Everyone read more than I did. Everyone had subscriptions to The New Yorker and everyone wanted to get into Harper’s, The Paris Review, and Granta. As I breathed through the sheer terror of it all, the fear that I would be “found out,” that Judy Budnitz was wrong after all, I soon discovered a host of writers whose stories would remain, even after all these years. Even after all this time.

Judy is an extraordinary, magical writer. She reminds of Kelly Link, Borges, Jeanette Winterson, Steven Millhauser, and Barthelme, in the way that she’s able to create worlds we couldn’t imagine. Her stories are a mix of the fantastic, the illogical made sense, and the sublime. If you want to be transported read Nice Big American Baby, If I Told You Once, Flying Leap.

It would be reductive to say that Beth Nugent and Thisbe Nissen write coming of age stories, because what they create, the texture of their landscape, is so much more. A friend introduced me to both writers, and I was blown away by Nugent’s City of Boys, and how she can write about sex, love and power so violently yet so quietly. And I remember reading Thisbe Nissen’s Out of the Girls’ Room and Into the Night when I first visited San Francisco, and fell in love with her voice, how she managed to navigate a world where bandaids were repeatedly ripped off, when young girls and women experienced first loves and hurts. These are two authors you’ll want to hold onto, and much like me, curious if they’re still writing.

I discovered Deborah Levy later, but her hypnotic and strange novel, Swimming Home, of a family unraveling in the presence of a beautiful and dangerous interloper, is one you’ll ravage.

Sometimes I wish I was that twenty-four-year-old kid rediscovering books all over again. Feeling overwhelmed and excited by all the possibility. I’m trying to recreate that for myself now by walking into a bookstore and thumbing through the stacks in hope of discovering someone new. For now, I’m content with ordering novels from Elisa Albert, and hoping that Nicole Krauss comes out with a new book sometime soon.

when our words are the loudest sound


There’s the smell of her voice. Mouthfuls of smoke and the spearmint gum she cracked and chewed. Metal from the coins and a small key she hid under her tongue. Some nights, late, it’d smell of blood gone dry — a cut on the lip, a cracked tooth — but also of something old. A cultivated staleness, a certain kind of loneliness that makes the whole of her mouth cavernous, as if she’d feret the life right of you. Take all of you in. They asked me to write a poem in fifth grade about my mother. Focus on a detail, something specific, they said. This was a time I swallowed voice, when hers was the loudest sound, and although I was nine I didn’t know how to describe my mother, which is to say the only way that I thought of her was to conjure her voice, and how it reminded me of a storm. So I did that, wrote a haiku, counting the syllables on one hand. Letting the words form and settle, and I handed in a sheet of paper where I likened my mother’s voice to thunder:

Crashing through the night
Roars filled with evil laughter
Lightning veins the sky

But maybe I should have written what her voice smelled like. That would’ve been more accurate; it would’ve gotten me closer. Someone asked me how I know how to do what I do, how I’m able to understand the world through writing about it, I never know how to answer that because this is something I’ve always been able to do. As I child my mother told me about the rules: Never cry. Never be vulnerable. Never be afraid. Never love anyone. So I lived much of my life like that, swallowing voice and practicing coldness. But my notebooks were a refuge, and I wrote out my sorrow like song, like sermon, and I remember what reading fiction first felt like. How I moved from the simple detective novels or stories of lithe blondes wearing pearls and fretting over their finery to leaning up against my locker reading John Cheever, Ernest Hemingway, J.D. Salinger, and John Updike. From a city that perpetually glinted to the genteel homes in Connecticut where there existed a mudroom, I got lost, deliriously so, in the darkness of other men’s words. In a junior high school filled with girls took for granted their expensive denim and fine hair, I read The Catcher in the Rye and felt awakened. I felt as if someone was talking to me, a friend pointing to the scribblings in their binder and saying, this is me laid out to pasture. This is me, too. These men wrote about loss, something I understand far too well. They wrote about masks, and how a whole society subsisted on the delicate maneuvering of masks. Everyone was on the verge. Everyone was frightened of the emptiness underneath. They built this beautiful, idyllic world that was determined to ruin. As if you decorated a house with lush carpets and tasseled pillows to discover that you neglected to build a floor, thatch a roof.


And then the thunder. And then the storm. And then the ruin. Does the story always start with, and end with, loss?

I wrote stories about girls who hung themselves from shower rods, girls who slept on linoleum floors as roaches skittered past, girls who inched out onto fire-escapes to read to escape the junk sick. Ceremoniously, guidance counselors held my typewritten stories and inquired about troubles at home, to which I’d shake my head and laugh and asked to be returned to class.

Of course there was something going on at home. There was always something going on at home.

When I first read Catcher, Bullet Park, The Sun Also Rises and Rabbit Run, I connected with the characters, but strangely enough I became fixated on the author. I wondered how he did it. Here I was, thirteen years old, ripping pages out of books and trying to diagram a story. How did someone create a whole world of hurt when I was only able to create a city of it? A house of it? And over the years reading gave me power, allowed me to find my voice, and although it’s been years since I’ve read the authors who unzipped my eyes open, I regard them with a certain kind of tenderness.

And then I think about how the most advanced yoga students actually go back to basics. They re-learn poses, break them down and rearrange them all over again. And after watching the horrific biopic that was Salinger today (it was so bad I can’t even talk about it), I was inspired to re-read his stories.

To revisit the girl who was thirteen, creating fiction. of the week


I plan to make a lot of yummy treats this weekend, and I’m thinking that this goat’s cheese cake with figs + honey will top the list | As I continue to pare down my possessions to only that which is loved and necessary, the simplicity of this lovely abode intrigues me | Somewhat of a voyeur, I always love peeking into a writer’s room, especially Jhumpa Lahiri’s place in Rome. You know I’ve already pre-ordered her book, The Lowland, and it’s as much anticipated as season three of Homeland. True story. | I purchased two of Everlane’s Seed Stitch sweaters, and they are perfection. Lightweight, cozy and forgiving for those of us who don’t possess taut abs. | Lauren Grodstein’s magnificient The Explanation for Everything: A Novel is on my lap and I’m subsumed. I’ve read all of Lauren’s books (a fellow Columbia alumn and friend), and her writing is superb.

Brief note of disclosure: I’ve just joined Amazon Affiliates, as I tend to recommend a lot of books on this space. I’m using this service to pay for annual maintenance of this site, and I’m only using the links for products I have purchased. I’m just tinkering. If you don’t dig and I don’t dig, I’ll change the situation.

new books on my bookshelf

Yesterday, I spent the day with Julia, an old friend and a luminous spirit. We spent a leisurely afternoon talking about yoga, anatomy, inspiring women and their transformation, living a life of truth, being humble, dismantling the ego, and of all the books we absolutely adored. From nibbling on croissants to strolling through the East Village, our conversation took us to one of my favorite bookstores in the city: McNally Jackson. McNally’s that rare gem of a bookstore that merges a cafe-type atmosphere, sweet baked goods, and the best books you never thought you wanted but absolutely need in your life. While Julia forged friendships and snacked choice magazines, I walked around the bookstore, ravenous, and here you’ll find my loot.

Joan Didion’s The Last Thing He Wanted (novel) | Kate Christiansen’s Blue Plate Special (food/memoir) | Alessandro Baricco’s Emmaus (novel) | Elissa Altman’s Poor Man’s Feast (food memoir)

ON MY RADAR. CHOMPING AT THE BIT, ETC.: Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Lowland | Nelly Reifler’s Elect H. Mouse State Judge | Lauren Grodstein’s The Explanation for Everything | Abby Geni’s The Last Animal | Aimee Bender’s The Color Master | Kathryn Davis’ Duplex | Paul Yoon’s Snow Hunters

shelf trophies: books I love, from me to you…


Joan Didion’s The White Album + Slouching Toward Bethlehem: Everything from Didion’s writing process to water plants and Haight Ashbury, her essays are biting and will propel your own personal velocity | Junot Diaz’s This is How You Lose Her: on adultery, love, heartbreak and the spaces in between | Claire Watkin’s Battleborn: dark, mythic, glorious and severe short stories focusing on the Nevada landscape | Claire Messud’s The Hunters + The Woman Upstairs: a novella and a novel that speaks to brilliant women the verge | Taiye Selasi’s Ghana Must Go: a family wrestles with the death of its patriarch | V. Nabokov’s The Eye: what happens after an affair jolts you into the afterlife | Krys Lee’s Drifting House: unflinching and graceful stories centered on the Korean-American experience | Karen Russell’s Vampires in the Lemon Grove: magical stories that test your imagination and suspend disbelief | Nick Flynn’s The Reenactments: a meditation on memoir, movie-making and memory | Alice Munro’s Dear Life: this is her final book and it needs no introduction | Deborah Levy’s Swimming Home: how a disturbed interloper interrupts a fragile house | Lauren Grodstein’s A Friend of the Family: a swift, enveloping novel centering on the bomb that is the next door neighbor | Sarah Manguso’s The Guardians: a graceful meditation on loss |


read until you pass out, read until you can hold the book no more

While I white-knuckle and practice patience {insert cackles and guffaws} while I await my friend’s opinion of my in-progress story collection, I’ve been devouring books and writing at a frenetic clip. Perhaps making up for lost time? Who’s to say. If I can give you any advice, it would be this: put down your phone and pick up a book. Any book. Just read.

“grow a vagina,” and other sorted bits from a strange, wonderful week


I jumped in the river and what did I see? Black-eyed angels swam with me. A moon full of stars and astral cars. All the things I used to see. All my lovers were there with me. All my past and futures. And we all went to heaven in a little row boat. There was nothing to fear and nothing to doubt. – Radiohead’s “Pyramid Song”

Months ago, someone asked me if I was happy. Define happy, I said, tapping on my keyboard, deliberately immersed and evading. Not once did I glance up from the black keys, even when he pressed my computer shut, even when his voice crescendoed like a note held for too long left to stand and uncomfortably linger, when he repeated, Are you happy? I couldn’t look up, couldn’t, because I had to admit that I’d settled for a life of comfortable discomfort. I’d settled for less than extraordinary. I’d settled for a life anesthetized. I’d settled for something less than what I once had.

I’d have to admit that I mother-fucking settled.

So I looked sideways, fixated on a window across the way and the papers flying out of it. Apparently, the wind got hold of an empty desk and had its way with it. Papers fluttered out, scattered, and inevitably made their descent. You can’t catch me off guard like that,I said. He laughed, and wondered aloud why I couldn’t answer such a simple question.

Either you’re happy or you’re not.

After what feels like a lifetime of breathing underwater, barnacles attach themselves to hard surfaces: the sides of large ships, the backs of whales, or the shells of some turtles. And they remain, attached, grabbing at the living, the beautiful creatures that sally past. Sessile, complacent, they simply survive off of the remains of others. They take what they can get. They mother-fucking settle.

How is it that I had become the one thing I spent my whole life scraping off? How did I miss waking each morning to finally see half my face, my body, covered in the things? How did I become blind that I had become a sticky, spindly thing, affixing myself to a desk, to a series of websites, to a feeding routine? How is that I stopped moving? Breath sputtering out, a body giving way, a heart in the ether.

How is that I had become what I had become?

Vladimir: Was I sleeping, while the others suffered? Am I sleeping now? Tomorrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of today? That with Estragon my friend, at this place, until the fall of night, I waited for Godot? That Pozzo passed, with his carrier, and that he spoke to us? Probably. But in all that what truth will there be? (Estragon, having struggled with his boots in vain, is dozing off again. Vladimir looks at him.) He’ll know nothing. He’ll tell me about the blows he received and I’ll give him a carrot. (Pause.) Astride of a grave and a difficult birth. Down in the hole, lingeringly, the grave digger puts on the forceps. We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. (He listens.) But habit is a great deadener. (He looks again at Estragon.) At me too someone is looking, of me too someone is saying, He is sleeping, he knows nothing, let him sleep on. (Pause.) I can’t go on! (Pause.) What have I said?

Estragon: I can’t go on like this.

Vladimir: That’s what you think.

How is it that his words were a blinding sunrise I didn’t want to see? Over there is a cloak, it’s darkness. Cover me with it. Can you hear me? And the note fell, got caught up in a larger song played in perpetual repeat (needle lifted, placed back on the record, again, again) until the song was so loud it threatened to explode in on itself. Head to knees, this is what they tell you when planes crash, but they neglect to mention that you’ll complete from the impact. Why did his words need to be the sun that was the plane that was the remains of you scattered along the ocean?

A head lifts, a word holds and plays out the scene, looks for places to hide but there are none. And the cold, No.

No, I’m not happy.


There was so much to fear, so much to doubt. So the days past, a succession of sunrises and footfalls. My eyes have been getting accustomed to the light, but it’s been a long journey out. And this is the journey everyone wants tidied up and finished, all two hands clapping and, sigh, that’s over with. People don’t want to sit in the uncomfortable spaces; they don’t want to hear the I am afraids and I don’t knows. Instead, they press for 140 characters of light; they interrupt, they say, You’re just being dramatic.

Oh, am I. Being dramatic. Is that it?

This was a strange week of huddled shoulders shuddering. Of cards laid down, of new hands played, of a deck that keeps on with its shuffle. Easy, easy, you got her too high. But it was a, how about we shudder together? How about our shakes turn into a dance, a song, that we’re desperate to sing? Smiling, I said, I like that.

Yesterday, a man leans in, all the way, and says, Felicia, you’ve got to grow a vagina. I can’t think of anything else that takes a harder beating. I winced, withdrew, and he laughed, and said he was paraphrasing Bette Davis, about balls being nothing but soft tissue and all that. But a vagina! A vagina was a courageous thing, it took no prisoners, and so on.

I wasn’t used to such directness and coarse language, and I still recoil a bit as I type this. Did he have to say VAGINA? I guess he did because I’m still thinking about it. His words, our conversation, shook the windows and splintered some of the wood and glass. It reminded me of The Angel of the Odd exhibit I saw in Paris — all that fear trapped on canvas, desperate and wanting. Goya, Ernst, Milton, Blake, Goethe, Shakespeare — artists who slipped into darkness, saw savagery plainly for what it was, and transformed it to color, type, and voice. It reminded me of my meeting with my agent, who shook with excitement when I said that my writing is scaring me. I’ve been waiting for your writing to combust, he said. He knew my frustrations with Sky, knew I was confined by traditional narrative, knew I wanted to go somewhere strange and dark, a world far from linear. Yet, there was this word, courage, and I had yet to understand its meaning. It reminded me of a man who told me that if I keep dodging what eludes me, I will always be my own ruin.

It’s only when we say our fears out loud do we find a way to move past them. Otherwise, it’s an ocean that threatens to swallow, to curl us under.

My life is about to take some strange, miraculous turns, and instead of drawing all the blinds and shuddering alone, I sent notes, made calls, asked if my shoulders could have some company.

And it feels good, to open my eyes, have it all hurt. To finger the bruises. It feels good to shudder and shake alongside…