I can see that coyote when I close my eyes. Its tail thin, its fur bunched. The worst nightmares are the ones that happen when we’re awake.

Life in 2020 felt scary and small; this year it feels liminal, perhaps irrelevant. As in 2020, I'm still scared: less by Covid and more by...everything else.

Representation in today’s media is questionable in many ways. But Othello does provide us with a rule of thumb: we have to speak of others as they are.

I’m not sure The Black Prince is my favorite book of all time, but it might be the most indelible, the most neuron-rewiring.

What I love about these stories in particular, and reading in general, is how precision and specificity can expose connection for me.

These books reminded me of why I read and write fiction. They take us deeper into ourselves, the richness and limits of our own imagination and experiences.

Reviewing what I’ve read this year, what emerges is my own obsession with memory. What is worth remembering? Who will remember? Will I remember?

I’ve been in story collection mode for the last year and a half, editing my collection, studying other collections, trying to live up to my favorites.

If the pandemic had a theme, it would be that time is slippery, that our memories serve as life jackets in an uncertain world, and that our letters to others are really letters to our lonely, broken selves.

This year I realized that there is a distinct difference between reading books as an average reader and as someone whose own book is now out in the world.

Deciding that my aversion came from insecurity and lack of training in literature, I resolved to learn how to read modern English poetry this year.

My trail of books—haphazard and circuitous—has been leading me through, opening up all kinds of unexplored possibilities, for which I am grateful.

When the pandemic began I worked fiercely on finishing a novel I had started but dropped a few years ago—because that’s what I do under stress: I buckle down and write. It’s how I cope.

To me, known and unknown Black historical figures aren’t dead and gone, but alive. These figures speak, they sing, and they give me wisdom.

In my decade-long project to read through Russian literature chronologically, I reached 1976 and three famous novels generally considered the best their authors ever wrote. Spoiler: I loved them all.

I actually recommend everyone to stop taking books so seriously, so monogamously.