Here’s the thing I can never get over: being a writer means having the opportunity to create something from nothing. It’s amazing. I try to act like I’m over it, like it’s all so much rust and resin, that every cage has lots its tiger, that computers destroyed writing, that nothing lasts and there’s nowhere to go. I like to walk with a dark cloud over my head, with a subway train hurtling down the wrecked track, where every conversation about Fifty Shades of Grey never ends like a version of hell, like that poor woman face down in the middle of Fifth Avenue her bag sprawled beside her, gawkers taking pictures. The inside of an ambulance. The inside of a mouth. The inside of a thick manuscript bound by beautiful sentences. That is the thing I can never get over.
Who are you?
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