I’m interested in the way in which memory—the way that we think about the past—is a re-creation of the past, how the past keeps happening.

I’m definitely methodical and imagine the metaphor as building paper mâché. I have these delicate sentences that layer atop each other until there’s something solid.

I’m deeply committed to not knowing what kind of writer I am. I rely on spontaneity and my habits change constantly. In that way I hope I’m evading stale, pat poems.

When I have an idea for a story, I never know how it’s going to turn out or, even, what it’s really about. I tend to spill out my guts all over the page, and then go back and shape it.

Here lately, I suppose I’d describe myself as a collagist. I collect slim notebooks of overheard language, odd images, possible poem frameworks, & run-on thoughts that keep me up at night.

I would like to put forth the idea that I’m a tea bag writer. I pack a bag of ideas and sit in the water and whatever comes out, that’s the story.

I think it’s important not to be tone deaf about the current cultural climate. But I think there’s a difference between being tone deaf and playing a tune that people want to hear as a way of courting public approval.

The first line of the novel is, ‘What I did to them was terrible, but you have to understand the context.’

Once you throw out there, Hey, it’s like our world, except there are these sexy angels, and there’s this afterlife office! I felt pressure to close the loop and explain it all.