I imagine literature as a kind of room without walls; or perhaps walls of double-sided mirrors; or perhaps mirrors painted with a perfect and perpetual map of the world. In this room a conversation is always transpiring. In fact, people are talking over one another, yelling and weeping and confessing. The speculative equivalent of Burroughs in a Benzedrine delirium, fidgeting through a cut-up, surrounded by ribbons of Socrates, Borges and maybe Johnathan Swift.  

This is the basis for my literary goals and aesthetics, what I look for when I write and read. I am interested in humanness—literature that throws itself into the mortal dialogue. I am drawn to characters’ vulnerabilities, the intricacies of that which drives and terrifies, an articulation of the human wound that turns chaotic and constantly fracturing experience into hair-raisingly relatable sentences. I was once challenged by a professor to describe the emotion and complications of my characters with the same specificity and detail as that of a visible landscape, and I think of this every time the cursor blinks or the pen hovers.