I Have Actual Dreams Of

She Told Her Therapist It Reminded Her Of Coming Home The Summer After Her Freshman Year At Rutgers, Stepping Back Into The Warm Bath Of Family And Friends, Loving It For A Week Or Two, And Then Feeling Trapped, Dying To Return To School, Missing Her Roommates And Her Cute New Boyfriend, The Classes And The Parties And The Giggly Talks Before Bed, Understanding For The First Time That That Was Her Real Life Now, That This, Despite Everything She'd Ever Loved About It, Was Finished For Good.

I Was Writing Very Early, Like I Was Involved In Our High School Literary Magazine, Which Was Called 'pariah.' The Football Team Was The Bears, And The Literary Magazine Was 'pariah.' It Was Great. It Was Definitely A Real Sub-culture. But I Wrote Stories For Them.

Nothing Beats Novel Writing Because It's Complete Expression Of You. You Just Control Everything. Not Even A Movie Director Has That Level Of Control.

Apparently Even The Most Awful Tragedies, And The People They'd Ruined, Got A Little Stale After A While.

I Have Actual Dreams Of Bruce Springsteen Calling Me Up On Stage To Wear A Bandanna And Play Rhythm Guitar Next To Little Steven.