As the music crescendos, you fall, and then you fall some more. A portal, unused for twenty years, cracks open, and then—here you are again.
My whole process of writing is tricking my brain into writing without realizing what I’m doing, to make myself write even when the idea of writing instills a vomity feeling in my gut.
That’s what my own process of writing, and living, is like: trying to conserve, redirect, and restore my energy in the most fruitful way.
From the beginning, I knew that terror is a god. But now, I also believe that what might sound like a death rattle is merely the echo of ancestral song.
Are these the only two stories? The one, where you defeat your monster, and the other, where you succumb to it?
Perhaps the certainty that you are not the monster—that no matter what you do, you will never become the monster—is what gives rise to monstrous behavior.
In America, we like to be heroes—to find our enemies and defeat them. So, in a pandemic where the enemy is not visceral, we create one that is.
I do not have flesh; I only have ghosts. In this story, the dead are only what I say they are. Does this make them less real?
Myths were—are—created to explain the unknown, like natural disasters, like death, like the unknowable bodies of water.