a friend of mine once said that [Fresh, Green Life] is My Year of Rest and Relaxation for boys.

Victoria Brooks is the author of Silicone God (MOIST Books/House of Vlad) a queer sci-fi novel. Jack Skelley is author of The Complete Fear of Kathy Acker (Semiotext(e)), and Myth Lab: Theories of

One time years ago, a friend threw herself a birthday party and bought her own birthday cake, which I found surprising. She said, of course I bought my own cake. Who else was going to do it? I think it’s the same with book promotion. You have to buy your own cake, and make an event of it.

What author’s (dead or alive) persona is aspirational? 
Maybe Joan Didion, the super thin wrists, the iconic image on a tote bag. I just want to keep on writing books. 

I think a lot about Annie Ernaux saying that she writes like she's going to die afterward. The principle works for all kinds of writing, not just autofiction—it's an urgency that makes the voice more electric, that drives you to completion, that's more honest because it has no concern for consequences.

I guess there is a measure of wish fulfillment in the detail of my description of Anna and Tom’s apartment. Sometimes I ask myself if this makes the arc of the novel a kind of revenge fantasy.

For months, I kept two words in my phone’s Notes app: “Victoria Brooks.” I’d hastily typed in the name during a lunch with writer, Jack Skelley, in Los Feliz. He promised I’d be a fan of her work.

My point here is that I no longer want my art practice to have a direct and negative impact on my personal relationships.

Mathematicians make use of rather interesting and imaginative leaps to explain mathematics, or to be the substance of mathematics in its own right. 

With Soft Core the whole book poured out of me in a weird ecstatic gush; I like to mindlessly word-vomit first, take a break and drink some kratom, then return to the word doc and start editing in a slower, more thoughtful way, so that it kind of feels like sculpting.

Because if something is inherently taboo, in any way, it’s probably worth exploring.

What author’s (dead or alive) persona is aspirational?
I have never found any authors to be aspirational.

Asking if a computer can do art or science is like asking if a submarine can swim...

I am always talking about the quality of paying attention and the quality of being willing to go into the unknown, being willing to not know. 

My book is really about loneliness and alienation (like all my favorite books), but politics comes up in it because everyone is obsessed with politics now.

"Mostly I think Spleen is about celebrating our friendship. It's a love that needs to be emphasized more widely rather than romantic love. Spleen is also a fantasy escape that gives us agency in ways we don't have in reality."

The “death of the mother” is trying to do two things: the first is a nod to family abolition and the death of the mother within a capitalistic context. And the second is explicitly thinking through “mothers” dying during childbirth or dying because they are unable to receive care for abortion.

“Once in a while, somebody is interested in what I might have to say. This somebody says, ‘I want to hear you out. I want to hear you out until there’s nothing left. I want you to tell me everything

They say you shouldn’t feed the trolls, but trolls are an essential component of the culture.

I think sometimes what people mean by “likable” as opposed to sympathetic or goodhearted is “conforming to my idea of what behavior I should aspire to.”

I think outside of drinking himself to death, Fitzgerald had a pretty fantastic life.

I attribute a 30% of our relationship to being Aries, 30% to being writers, and 40% to being mentally ill.*

The Pete Davidson Love Letter is actually my favorite thing I’ve ever written, too. I fell in love with him in the fall of 2017 when I saw him speaking about mental health on Weekend Update. It made me feel so much less alone. He was so cute with his buck teeth.

I’m somewhat like that, but more of a junkballer, a term better known for baseball pitchers: someone who gets by with unexpected spins and slices and wiliness due to a deficit of conventional talent.

Kate Axelrod’s new book of stories, How to Get Along Without Me, is, to quote the jacket copy, “a collection that summons the perversity and poignance of twentysomething dating lives from a bracingly