TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile
06.30.03, monday morning
The fiction I hate is most often mine. I think, This is false. Everything sounds unbelievable. She wouldn’t speak like that. That is too coincidental. Too calculated. Just today I read something I wrote months ago; I hated it. It was a review of a book I liked but didn’t keep around. I knew, ultimately, that it wasn’t a book I wanted to write about. But I wrote it anyways; it was for work. I need to remember to write about people and places that I would love, ultimately, to have close and dear.