when i was a girl, i could not get enough of horse stories. i picked up john steinbeck’s the red pony
expecting just another heartwarming story of a boy & his horse…by the end of the book, i was
pissed off & utterly confused. i remember the book from time to time, with bitterness. however,
while proofing my upcoming collection of short stories, i found myself remembering the story
with a different reaction. my own abrupt and morose storytelling reminded me of john steinbeck &
that fucking pony. then i began to wonder how much i had internalized in those precocious early
years, reading books beyond my understanding, stephan king & edgar allan poe…now building blocks
to my own stories. men i have never met, corrupting & molding that little writer inside me….