Britt McCubbin’s Reviews > Mother Mary Comes to Me > Status Update

"I knew then that I had hunted down my language-animal. I had disemboweled it and drunk its inky blood. I knew that if I could describe my river, if I could describe the rain, if I could describe the feeling in a way that you could see it, smell it, touch it, then I would consider myself a writer."

I am in awe. Wowowowowowowow.

"Fiction is that strange, smoky thing that writers don't entirely own, even if they think they do. Where does it come from? Our past, our present, our reading, our imagination - yes. But perhaps from premonitions of our future too?"