On Loving a Writer

You think you like to read?

I once masturbated to John Updike.

You think you’re vulnerable?

Anna Karenina and Madame Bovary inspired my affair with a married man.

You think you’ve got commitment issues?

That I’ve fantasized about William Burroughs shooting me in the head makes me a bad feminist, I’m sure.

You think you’re green with envy?

I ripped pages from Ted Hughes’ anthologies, crumpled them into little balls, arranged them decorously on to a gleaming plate next to a glass of Chianti. Then I ate them, one by one, sans garnish. If I can’t have Sylvia Plath, I will eat the man she loved, like air.

You think you’re suggestible?

Tom Wolfe and Hunter S. Thompson held the lighter, guided the rolled-up dollar-bill, steadied the spoon, tapped the needle. Cue bliss.

You think you’re impulsive?

The shortest of George Saunders’ stories has me devouring family-sized bags of potato chips, licking artificially neon-orange cheese dust from beneath my fingernails, in the most insatiably animal of ways.

You think you’re high maintenance?

I will only get married in June, which William Faulkner called “the month of brides.” But if you are not William Faulkner, I am afraid we shall not wed.

You think you’re the one for me?

My soulmate is dog-eared, with a cracked spine.


Sabrina Nanji is a writer living in Toronto.

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