I started reading contemporary fiction in college or right after college. It wasn’t as if I was steeped in experimental minimalism when I was twelve or something. I was reading The Witch of Blackbird Pond.
I don’t know whose sensibility I’m responding to. Until someone starts pushing against what they’ve inherited and starts making their own decisions about language, it’s difficult.
If a synesthetic person says the letter a is green, it can’t ever be anything but green.
As someone who played music and never got famous, and remembers little fragments of that, I don’t remember life as a dramatic flamboyant thing.
I’m always interested in encountering people who are synesthetic and seeing how they experience things.
I have what I came to find in my research is a mild form of synesthesia, though I never would have labeled it as such. It’s how I think about numbers and letters. They all have inherent genders.
Even in so-called realist or conventional writing there can be defamiliarization.
I am fascinated by tiny, incremental changes, almost imperceptible shifts in how people orient themselves in the world, because those are in some ways the most hopeful.
In undergraduate classes, I often see writers who are still simply imitating. I mean, we all imitate – that’s how we learn to speak or write in the first place – but they’re writing a Dean Koontz novel or something.
The act of language or the act of denying language carries its own heaviness.
Giving the reader the space to move around and be active, and encourage their active response is important to me. That will connect the reader more to the text.
I felt sure about wanting to look at a person’s life that had been limited or damaged, but not necessarily ennobled, by loss.