I'm Learning To Hate The

I Suppose In A Way Most Of My Characters Are Non-consumers, Not Terribly Interested In All The Little Baubles And Artifacts Of Contemporary Life.

Novelists Get To Direct The Perfect Films. We Get To Cast Every Part. We Dress The Set Exactly As We Wish.

Context Is Everything. Dress Me Up And See. I'm A Carnival Barker, An Auctioneer, A Downtown Performance Artist, A Speaker In Tongues, A Senator Drunk On Filibuster. I've Got Tourette's. My Mouth Won't Quit, Though Mostly I Whisper Or Subvocalize Like I'm Reading Aloud, My Adam's Apple Bobbing, Jaw Muscle Beating Like A Miniature Heart Under My Cheek, The Noise Suppressed, The Words Escaping Silently, Mere Ghosts Of Themselves, Husks Of Empty Breath And Tone.

There Were Days When No Kid Came Out Of His House Without Looking Around. The Week After Halloween Had A Quality Both Hungover And Ominous, The Light Pitched, The Sky Smashed Against The Rooftops.

As Much As I Revere Great Writing, And Am Still Humbled By It, Literary Activities Are No Longer Esoteric To Me. When I Read A Great Novel - Something That I Could Never Have Written Myself - I'm Still Looking At It A Little Bit Like A Technician.