I Love This Idea Of

I Don't Think Fake People Living In A Fake House In A Fake Suburb Are Any Less Dismissible Or Believable Than A Fake Psychic Attending A Fake School In A Fake Town. Nothing's Inherently Believable About Any Kind Of Fiction, Because All Of It's Untrue.

I Really Did For A Few Weeks Think, I'm In Pain Because The World Needs Me To Save It. Which Is So Ridiculous And Egotistical.

I Obviously Read And Adore Traditional Fiction. I Teach Traditional Fiction, I Also Teach All Kind Of Not-so-traditional Fiction. And Since I'm Such A Plot Buff, And I'm Really Such A Narrative Buff, I Can't Seem To Relinquish My - Not Just Reliance - But Excitement About Those Traditional Techniques.

Like Semmering Academy, The Grove School Was A Gothic Pile Of Bricks Run By 1950s-era Chalk Drones, Which Maintained Its Cultural Viability By Perpetuating A Weirdly Seductive Anxiety Throughout Its Community. Mary Herself Was A Victim Of The Seduction; Despite The Trying And Repetitive Emotional Requirements Of Her Job, She Remained Eternally Fascinated By The Wicker-thin Girls And Their Wicker-thin Mothers, All Of Them Favoring Dark Wool Skirts And Macintoshes And Unreadably Far-away Expressions; If She Squinted, They Could Have Emerged Intact From Any Of The Last Seven Decades.

I Developed A Crazy Face Rash After I Got Engaged To A Guy I Must Have Known Somewhere I Should Not Marry. I Hadn't Articulated This To Myself, So My Face Told The World Instead.