Just another writer

I knew it was heading toward a dark place, but the way he twists the reader into being an accomplice, like you’re the voice in Edgar Mead’s head, that was pretty cool, like the reader affects what’s being read, kind of a Schrödinger’s cat-and-mouse game. David Gilbert, & Sons.

Adolescence seems to open a small hole in which the rest of our lives drain. David Gilbert, & Sons.

He seemed a veteran of—I don’t know, adolescence, I suppose, which like all wars is particular to the combatant. David Gilbert, & Sons.

She had reasonable good looks, like many a reasonable girl at Exeter, the product themselves of reasonable mothers, always with dark hair never cut too short and surprisingly bad teeth—if not crooked, then yellow; if not yellow, then with large gums—and with naturally UV-protected skin, glasses almost mandatory but stylishly framed (their most overt fashion…