I used to tell interviewers that I wrote every day except for Christmas, the Fourth of July, and my birthday. That was a lie. I told them that because if you agree to an interview you have to say something, and it plays better if it’s something at least half-clever. Also, I didn’t want to sound like a workaholic dweeb (just a workaholic, I guess). The truth is that when I’m writing, I write every day, workaholic dweeb or not. That includes Christmas, the Fourth, and my birthday (at my age you try to ignore your goddam birthday anyway). And when I’m not working, I’m not working at all, although during those periods of full stop I usually feel at loose ends with myself and have trouble sleeping. For me, not working is the real work.
Stephen King (via mttbll)
I don’t remember the south. By the time my memory kicked in, I was living in the Pacific Northwest. But I am deeply familiar with that bodily need to be within weeds. For the first eighteen years of my life, the bottoms of my feet were callused, my legs used to pushing through bramble. My backyard was half an acre of grass, and then beneath that, four acres of untended wood.
Sometimes in the late afternoon, I’d go to the bottom of the yard and walk down a path, toward where the shadows grew thicker between trees. I’d taunt myself with how close I could get, alone, before turning and running back up, terrified that some rustling (surely only a rabbit or a bird) was a coyote or, worse, the mountain lion we were told had nested between branches.
I have an essay about Ain’t Them Bodies Saints & its particular sense of place in the latest issue of the always gorgeous & always intelligent Bright Wall/Dark Room. The essay has a gorgeous illustration by Sophie Foster-Dimino! And is available for free online! But I do highly recommend subscribing (if you haven’t already)––there are great pieces on (among others) Twin Peaks, Nebraska, Singles, & Beasts of the Southern Wild.