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I find it weird talking about that time now, as if by writing about life you consign it to a fiction, a story, something so unbearably intimate that has to become remote from your own reality in order to survive. I guess that’s how I feel about my three years in New York: that by turning it into a book I changed it from reality into literature divorced from experience. I guess that’s how we deal with life when it becomes overwhelming, we writers. We just turn it into something digestible and understandable when really it was never comprehendable, it doesn’t make sense.