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210 pages, Paperback
First published October 1, 2015
In Version A, what could have happened is that I got in the car, because what else could I do? Raul drove to the party, and we all drank too much and got high, and the girl and me never looked at each other all night, and I never saw her again, and after a while Raul and me broke up and now I’m with some other guy.These decisions are not only for the woman, but sometimes her children or grandchildren: All those pretty dreams went wrong for us, and we don’t want our kids learning them. This is the house of making it up from scratch (p. 192).
But in Version B, the girl’s door opened, too, and she got out into the cooling dark air. (p. 195)
It was confusing, being a muse, and now at twenty-six I should know better than to be shoving pens into my hand but am left still wondering if my talent lay at all in the writing, or merely in the folding and unfolding of my black-clad legs, the way I ran my fingers through the soft long strands of my dark hair, stroked and tugged the silver hoops in my ears as dusk fell and his talk lowered us gently into our shared crepuscular trance— or if it actually lay in the brutish sex I had in study carrels and the bathrooms of dance halls and in alleys, bent forward with my hands braced against a reeking dumpster, my throat clogging with the rot-smell as I came, just another kind of stabbing, another kind of wound I did to myself with what I could find. (p. 37)This book is the One Book read for my mother's community (along with Castro's essays). They will have much to discuss.