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When the light at Vernon turned green, we stepped into the street and George grabbed my hand and the ghosts of our younger selves crossed with us.

Aimee Bender

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Aimee Bender
Age: 55
Born: 1969
Born: June 28
Novelist
Writer
the United States of America
Green
Crossed
Streets
Ghosts
Hand
Selves
Hands
George
Light
Younger
Self
Ghost
Vernon
Street
Grabbed
Turned
Stepped

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I am the drying meadow you the unspoken apology he is the fluctuating distance between mother and son she is the first gesture that creates a quiet that is full enough to make the baby sleep. My genes, my love, are rubber bands and rope make yourself a structure you can live inside. Amen.
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It is so often surprising, who rescues you at your lowest moments.
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I felt the crumpled paper that had taken the place of my lungs expand as if released from a fist.
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You try, you seem totally nuts, you go underground.
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I like birthday cake. It's so symbolic. It's a tempting symbol to load with something more complicated than just 'Happy birthday!' because it's this emblem of childhood and a happy day.
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Mom loved my brother more. Not that she didn't love me - I felt the wash of her love every day, pouring over me, but it was a different kind, siphoned from a different, and tamer, body of water. I was her darling daughter Joseph was her it.
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I give boring people something to discuss over corn.
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Many kids, it seemed, would find out that their parents were flawed, messed-up people later in life, and I didn't appreciate getting to know it all so strong and early.
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The wine glasses are empty except for that one undrinkable red spot at the bottom.
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It seemed to happen in springs, the revealing of things.
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I don't think so, I don't agree. The most unbearable thing I think by far, she said, is hope.
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Language is the ticket to plot and character, after all, because both are built out of language.
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and I get refill number three or four and the wine is making my bones loose and it's giving my hair a red sheen and my breasts are blooming and my eyes feel sultry and wise and the dress is water.
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I was with them for all of it, but more like an echo than a participant.
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I watched as she added a question mark at the end. Arc, line, space, dot.
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My eyelids are my own private cave, he murmured. That I can go to anytime I want.
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Not getting bored of my own story and/or character is one of the main struggles I have had with novel writing, and I have put to bed big chunks of work that just didn't sustain my interest.
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It is all about numbers. It is all about sequence. It's the mathematical logic of being alive. If everything kept to its normal progression, we would live with the sadness-cry and then walk-but what really breaks us cleanest are the losses that happen out of order.
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Mom flipped through the magazines like the pages needed to be slapped.
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I want to be violated by insight.
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