Wind in the ears like / Water ungathering / In and out of baskets.

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. 

Beckett throws another party

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.

Cake Zine Volume 6

A part whore/part homely crowd crowdpleaser 

It was cold out.

He never did meet the kid.

He arrived in the city with an STD.

Sun on the creases of someone I love, shadows cut / our funny surface.

Story

Story

you can build the fist into a exclamation point

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.

He’d been by himself now for months except for game night with his colleagues and so he multiplied 13 by 47 in his head and divided it down until it was a trace behind the decimal point and then he asked her if she would like to meet him for a coffee downtown.

A glassy-looking eye staring out too from Mr A’s head. Had he been a victim somewhere along the line?

When she used to swim at night her bones cut through water like perforating paper. It was always the same ritual, pants off first with a slight shimmy, arms up high overhead to get rid of the

I intimidate men

With my intensity

Please don’t be scared of me

I most certainly am not acting out, I inform Mom via ESP, as she silently bids me to exercise her extolled virtue of impulse control. Across from us at the dinner table looms a leering lech

Like everyone born after 1991, I hate my job.