It was the summer of 2018, and I had just returned home to California from Italy, where my relationship exploded after we had lived together for only four months.
Perhaps this is why trans people crave romantic love with a curdling, obscure undercurrent of self-doubt, of rage.
Please dont forget to play. Can you remember
the last time you danced?
Wind in the ears like / Water ungathering / In and out of baskets.
When his heart is an ashtray—cigarette butts put out on a surface that will not flinch
why does it feel so much harder to see something happen to someone else than have it happen to you?
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.
She buys us both mineral waters from the MoMA cafe.
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.
Only the best of girls get to play fantasy football and today, that’s me.
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.
This story’s about a trip. It’s a strange word. Trip. As a noun, it means a journey or excursion, going somewhere and returning, especially for pleasure, or to stumble or fall. It’s also the word used
I feel sexy / as a sheared sheep
