Language is my favorite game. I like mottled language that inflates until it pops—wonky, ornate sentences always threatening to collapse, words that wobble as part of the act. But I want you to be pulled through. I would like if every clause were special in a way that fitted its thoughts organically—if every turn of phrase could be as baroque and as simple as possible, and also a little sly, like a pearl-handled Occam’s razor with flowers etched into its blade.

I am writing a big, fun, dark, crazy and elaborate anti-romance novel.