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208 pages, Paperback
First published June 22, 2015
When preparations for the war began, we still agreed about a lot of things. For example we agreed that the terrorist attacks of 9/11 were a disaster of terrible proportions that nothing could excuse or mitigate. We agreed that while a certain radical element of fundamentalist Islam was pernicious, it was important to differentiate between the vast majority of Muslim people, who might not agree with the West about everything and might even dislike the United States, but should not be confused with their militant co-religionists any more than we should be confused with Pat Robertson. . . .This sense gives the story an interesting immediacy that appears throughout the collection. Such an immediacy contributes to its exploration of loss, of falling apart, of the end of relationships and makes it more effective.
In principle we agreed that it was fine for us to disagree as long as we respected each other's reasons for thinking as we did. The problem was that after a little while, every conversation that we had seemed to circle back to this topic whether we meant it to or not(ellipsis mine).
Emily Mitchell has worked as a waitress, a receptionist at a bakery/tanning salon, a short-order cook, a snowmobile driver, a crime-scene cleanup technician, an exotic animal trainer, a war correspondent, a phone dispatcher, a secretary, an environmental campaigner, a freelance journalist, a bean counter, and a holistic pediatric oncologist.and "Her short fiction has appeared in various publications and then disappeared. This is unusual and seems to be attributable to a peculiar warp in the space-time continuum, which her work has caught like a virus and which makes it vanish shortly after publication never to be seen again." This is a strange but interesting story and the verisimilitude given by seeming to be a biography of the author helps it hold the reader in its strange claims.
She has never worked as an exotic dancer.