Chapter 1

Life doesn’t tell stories.  Life is chaotic, fluid, random; it leaves myriads of ends untied, untidily.  I despair of the primitive, vulgar and idle curiosity of the reader to know what happens next.

         So wrote B S Johnson.

Chapter 2

I read fiction every day.  At night before I sleep, first thing in the morning, in the afternoon with a cup of tea.  I don’t read to learn, I don’t read to pass time.  I read in order to understand why I read.  Why do I have this compulsive desire to read?  What is it, exactly, I’m drawn to?   I’m interested in words and what they might mean.  I’m interested in sentences.  I’m interested in discomfort.  In chance.  In disorder. I’m interested in Barry Hannah and David Markson and Joy Williams and Anna Sebastian and Mary Robison and Emmanuel Bove and Gary Lutz and Gilbert Rogin and Barbara Comyns.

Chapter 3

I write because there are things I can’t sing about.  There are ways of writing that can’t be sung.  I write because it’s solitary and it’s always new.  I write because language and life and the world confuses and worries me.  I write because I watch.