The one on Fresh Hell is a little easier, because we make it up. It’s a strange kind of hybrid of the real me and… Well, obviously it’s me standing there, and it’s my voice and my face, but it’s also kind of filtered through Harry Hannigan’s take on the character, the one he’s writing.
…women who ‘adjust’ as housewives, who grow up wanting to be ‘just a housewife,’ are in as much danger as the millions who walked to their own death in the concentration camps…they ate suffering a slow death of mind and spirit.
The scene is memory and is therefore nonrealistic. Memory takes a lot of poetic license. It omits some details; others are exaggerated, according to the emotional value of the articles it touches, for memory is seated predominantly in the heart.
I began to understand that his version of hope reached far beyond mine: It was one thing to get yourself out of a stick place, I realized. It was another thing entirely to try and get the place itself unstuck.
