dreaming of my future books, i always imagine nothing is written on the french flaps. (my future books will always have french flaps.) no biography, no blurbs from michael ondaatje, nothing. maybe just a picture of an amazonian kid with his pet lizard that i ripped off nat geo and i keep in my wallet. coy i know, but i detest those author bios that tell you the seven cities where they grew up, where they went to school (‘studied under milton friedman?’ who gives a fuck? you’re not him!), lit movements they’ve started, etc.

certain facts, certain things that happened in my life, have influenced the way i write. getting sent away from home at sixteen to live with an aunt who was then in the process of divorcing her husband, spending an hour in front of sophie calle’s Douleur exquise at the centre pompidou, trying to read the heartbreaking stories with my non-existent french, several broken hearts of my own: these things matter.

but others matter more. i’m just too embarrassed to admit to them on a french flap.

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