I imagine Hanya Yanagihara wandering the streets of lower Manhattan, stumbling upon a small alley-like street, called Lispenard. And in its tucked-away, hidden aspect, finding the beginning of a story. Two boys living in a rundown apartment. Maybe from that humble beginning, a network of relationships and places began to spiral out. Who are these boys? she asks herself. Oh, they went to college together, of course. And was it just them? Oh no, there were two others. A foursome, she thinks. But what happens to them? she asks. Lots of terrible shit, the story answers, because by now, the story is the one in charge.
I mean, my god. This book. The writing was so damn powerful. Insights so astute without being pedantic. The torture, so real. At times, too much. I had to skip, like, five pages where shit gets too upsetting to read. But because I also didn't want to miss any of it, I read two lines of each paragraph, just to assure myself we were still in the torture section.
Since I've abandoned my own recent book project and am trying to be open to new book ideas, I'm honestly not sure what to steal. If anything, I feel like I want to take for myself permission to have a book about characters. Obviously. But a book where the characters are the draw--not some "high concept," gripping pitch. A book that spirals out from a quiet alley into a tornado that does real damage. But real damage in a good way.
