The term “unreliable narrator” was first coined in 1961 by the critic Wayne C. Booth, and since then it has become one of fiction’s most recognizable elements. While initially viewed as something
Let’s create fake accounts and try to seduce each other.
I used to part masses. To wade through throngs of children cheering. Boogie would press play on the cassette, and I’d come through the crowd instead of take the aisle. I’d roll on the trampoline and stand above a field of pumping fists.
You would be forgiven for thinking Vegas is not the place for you.
I call that year my wandering year or my train station year or my year of the lucky rat year. It was 1996 and I was pregnant with my first child, Boris––born with a strong heart, Boris.
She had gorgeous hair, long and dark -- I like to wrap it around my neck after we make love and fall asleep like that.
We were there to see Belgian metal band Oathbreaker. And I bought a Khemmis shirt, in part because theirs was one of the best, most metal, riffiest sets I’ve ever seen and in part because their shirts were the kinds of all wizards and skulls that you want in a metal shirt. But it was Jaye Jayle I found most hypnotic.
The first thing you need to know about being a Disney is that you should avoid letting anyone know that you are one.
The book reveals as much about the reader’s psyche, about the self and the readers’ reaction to reading it, as it does about the author— this deeply personal thing, a dream, so full of symbols we imbue with our own shared and cultural meanings.
The neighbor comes to my door with my keys in his hand: I'd left them in the mailbox earlier, or maybe yesterday, or the day before that.
Nemo me impune lacessit - pueri et infirmi, qui scripsit in pupa.
It’s not the enormity of the half-eaten doughnut.
His new girlfriend makes things with her hands. You know. Things. Candle holders out of twigs. A mosaic picture frame out of broken up bits of CDs.
Because I love in the manner of eating I am sure whatever I take from you will pass.
You gather one brush, one can of paint, one room, and one hand tethered to attention.
He's lying in bed thinking about his imaginary lover. He's not touching himself, he doesn't think about him when he does, only maybe in the very final moments.
As far as structure goes, I’ve always been interested in the way fragments of narrative can play off one another. All of my novels have been puzzles—games—that I’ve created for myself.
You ignore the sudden impulse to bash your office mug collection and dance barefoot on the broken glass shards. Instead, you brush your teeth and get into bed because you have a busy day tomorrow!
I began my life in a trailer. A black and white shaky construction plunked on a corner some farmer had carved out of an old cow pasture. One silver maple with a rotten core clung to life. I watched the world outside through drafty windows and remember the shade slapping the sash when the wind picked up.
The man who bought Hitler’s bed did not have nightmares as a child.
I don’t know if I ever actually listened to Blink-182, but I told people that I did.
Of course the laundromat goes quiet. I glance around. We're all shocked. I catch the eyes of a little girl. Hair in pigtails. She looks scared.
I walk in the mud by the river. The mud is cold. The mud swallows one foot, then the other. It's hard to remove my foot, the mud won't let me.
Woke up alone today in my own bed
after a solid sleep for the first time
in over three weeks, feeling strange there,
almost rested, but not quite, how big
my bed was around me, how new
I used to think my father was a baseball card.
