Carson McCullers found me during my loneliest year. An ingénue-writer, at twenty-three she blew New York away with The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, her story about a little Southern town, a girl named Mick, and a deaf man named John Singer. Literary fame followed, then divorce, illness, and early death. She had a series of strokes throughout her adult life that left her partially paralyzed; the last one led to her passing at age fifty. McCullers spent much of her adult life “in recovery” nursing a thermos of tea and sherry. It’s a story that indulges our favorite cliché about artists—that out of great pain comes great work. [...]
A: My natural habitat being systematically destroyed in the name of advancing civilization.
A: Technically, they count electric sheep while they're still awake, trying to drift off to sleep. Then they generally dream of naked lady androids, or of writing midterms at the local electric school they're unprepared for, while wearing electric underwear with a Batman motif.