I Wish Somebody Knew Whether Or Not

I Can't Even Tell You What Else I Imagined. I Can Only Humiliate Myself To Such A Degree; At A Certain Point It Becomes Humorous, And This Story Is Not Meant To Be Humorous. This Story Is Meant To Winch Your Ribs Open And Tamper With Your Heart. This Story Is Meant To Make You Realize That Your Chances Of Happiness In This World Are Terribly Slim If You Lack A Fine Imagination.

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.

I Like Playing With A Popular Cliché And Making It My Own By Half-embracing It, Half-disemboweling It.

I Wont Deny That I Have A Far More Productive Writing Life Without The Internet, Mostly Because I Rekindle My Ability To Concentrate On One Thing For A Period Of Longer Than Three Minutes. My Curiosity Is Channeled Inward Rather Than Internet-ward.

We Want To Believe We Couldn't Be Replaced, And That The People We Love Are Irreplaceable.