In my class, the only acceptable genre was the one I had learned to associate with so-called serious fiction: sad middle-aged men trying to reclaim their youthful glory, preferably while drunk on cheap whiskey.

I have come to understand Oblivion for what it really is: A work of horror fiction, whose unique brand of horror is rooted in David Foster Wallace's reading about the brain.

I began to see parallels between the time and space of the physical universe and the fictional one. What if time and space were the only two properties the writer sought to control? Would the universe of craft choices become less overwhelming?

My children are thunderclouds. Veined with brilliant light. Full of noise. Their presence is felt in the bones. They leave the most fabulous puddles. They wash over me every day and drain me and they leave everything feeling renewed.

In the agonizing months of trying to write a novel inspired by your passing, I sensed you near.

The door to the dark underbelly of receiving great joy at an author’s acknowledgement had been opened.

Reader responses are not reviews, and they’re not criticism. They’re raw, usually spontaneous reactions to my work. They’re valuable to me because they make me feel like I’m sitting right next to the reader, watching them bite their lip or roll their eyes as they scroll down the page.