Sarah had unlocked a voice, a new manner of speaking which was also a new manner of thinking, moving, and arriving at meaning.

Sarah Winman has titled her most recent novel after the genre, and it’s not till two-thirds of the way through her story that she—like any good storyteller—finally teases out the title’s meaning.

The routines ‘d gotten old by then
he said to me, all those steps one had to remember
were things to be forgotten, transcended.

When I picked up Liz Moore’s The God of the Woods, I expected to tread a familiar path. The verdant greenery of the cover reminded me of a Baroque painting and the bubblegum-pink drips (evocative of blood?) seemed to whisper: this is girly, this is for you. I thought I knew what to expect from such a novel, but here I am—over a month later—still turning it over in my mind.

Repetitio mater studiorum. Repetition is the mother of learning. These words are on a dog-eared index card magnetized to my fridge. In my writing life, repetitions can be a life-giving route to the borders of comprehension.

I’ll begin with a recommendation: the film Perfect Days. It follows a man who cleans Tokyo’s public toilets—each one a work of art in itself—as he moves through an enviably monastic, analog life. Although almost nothing happens, so much happens in this film.

While Jamie and Matt is a fictional story about an isolated older couple living in a California desert community, it’s also about my fears of growing older and losing my mind to dementia. My grandfather and mother had dementia, so I know what that looks like. I don't mind losing my youthful appearance, like hair or teeth—but my mind is sacred.

Blood Ritual found me because I left the door between Now and Then open. One evening, with red wine in hand and my dog collecting sticks nearby, I felt an electric kind of peace, even with mosquitoes hovering relentlessly—a melancholy buzzing in my ear. I scribbled down, “Unwelcome in my wine,” and went back to defending my weird little peace. With just a few words, I kept the door open, knowing I’d return some other time.

My technique isn’t as complex as my terrain.

When I assemble the photos, I note how they’re drawn toward each other in an almost unconscious way — almost like a coincidence.