In 2015, I typed and mailed a letter to Joy Williams. I was coming out of a few non-writing years and the mindfuck of parenting young children when I started re-reading all of her books in some attempt to crack myself back open. Reading her work again—the bits of fabulism, the edges knocked up against and out, the moments of hilarity often positioned so close to cruelty or stark beauty in unexpected ways and places—helped me to remember what I loved about both reading and writing.
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