I have never read a book on the “craft” of fiction.
That’s a lie: I taught one last year. His discussion of dialogue was so inane I stopped reading. Based on one chapter.
This makes me a lazy reader.
Craft is stolen.
I am a thief.
I am rarely a lazy reader.
I did not know how to write dialogue until I began teaching at my current place of employment.
I taught creative writing workshops for years before getting this job.
How did I not know how to write dialogue?
It’s 78 degrees and I am wearing a sweater.
Teaching forces me to learn all these elements of craft that I’d only intuited before.
I published four books and one anthology before I began working at my current place of employment.
I am a better teacher for it.
I am a more conservative writer now.
Lying is essential to being a writer.
Have you ever met an honest writer?
Honesty is fiction. Good fiction at least.
Lying is inherent to fiction.
I am contradicting myself.
I went from writing magic (before teaching) to domestic realism (currently teaching).
Is this a bad thing?
No one wants to publish my well-crafted domestic realism.
Is it over? Never!
One journal said that when I start writing magic again, please re-submit.
And then another journal said the same thing.
Talking to Kate Bernheimer, we thought maybe this was a gender thing.
Men can write whatever. Women are constrained.
Not in a hip OuLiPian way.
Thirty-two suddenly feels old and aesthetically conservative, but really, my syntax is wild, maybe because I suddenly understand the rules. And so I play. I play at thirty-two. I live in a fairy tale, a fantasy, a fiction.