I love the malleability of the novel as a form. I love how it can be put into service for all manner of means, how language can be playful in this way. It’s always been a thing with me, this driving toward the edge of what is believable. I have always been curious about the limits of faith. The book about Wulf is another such project. My plan is to narrate a life for him, to animate him, to create a person out of a ghost. And to be fair to my parents, I do not really understand what drives this need. But I have been doing this long enough to know that the only way to figure that out is to do it. For writing is a special kind of doing. A kind of embodied arrival.
And here I am writing Boyt’s story when I really just want my brother back, even if having him back means only words on paper.
