Language is the ticket to plot and character, after all, because both are built out of language.
AIMEE BENDERLanguage is the ticket to plot and character, after all, because both are built out of language.
AIMEE BENDERMom flipped through the magazines like the pages needed to be slapped.
AIMEE BENDERA Dorito asks nothing of you, which is its great gift. It only asks that you are not there.
AIMEE BENDERPouring over me, but it was a different kind, siphoned from a different, and tamer, body of water. I was her darling daughter; Joseph was her it.
AIMEE BENDERI was right at the edge of their circle, like the tail of a Q…
AIMEE BENDERThe stories themselves haunt, they stick around, they linger, inhabiting a little corner of the reader’s brain and resurfacing to evoke mystery or sadness or longing.
AIMEE BENDERI could feel the tears beginning to collect in my throat again, but I pushed them apart, away from each other. Tears are only a threat in groups.
AIMEE BENDERAs a writer you ask yourself to dream while awake.
AIMEE BENDERI was with them for all of it, but more like an echo than a participant.
AIMEE BENDERMom loved my brother more. Not that she didn’t love me – I felt the wash of her love every day.
AIMEE BENDERMany kids, it seemed, would find out that their parents were flawed, messed-up people later in life, and I didn’t appreciate getting to know it all so strong and early.
AIMEE BENDERBefore she knew it was candles, did she think she’d done it herself? With the amazing turns of her hips.
AIMEE BENDERBut what I kept wondering about is this: that first second when she felt her skirt burning, what did she think?
AIMEE BENDERYou can ruin anything if you focus at it.
AIMEE BENDERI have had with novel writing, and I have put to bed big chunks of work that just didn’t sustain my interest.
AIMEE BENDERThat at the same time of this very intimate act of concentrating so carefully on the details of our mother’s palm and fingertips.
AIMEE BENDER