Tao Lin writes on his blog, "Reader of Depressing Books". He is the author of a novel, "Eeeee Eee Eeee", a story-collection, "Bed", a poetry collection, "You Are A Little Bit Happier Than I Am", and a new poetry collection, Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy (Melville House, May 2008). He has written two new poems for us.

--- 3 QUESTION INTERROGATION ---

What do you write about?
Migrant workers.
What is the best sentence you have ever read in your life that you can remember?
"We ate food."
How has your life changed since you got published and became an author of serious literature?
More shit-talkers.

I WAS WAITING FOR YOUR TEXT MESSAGE

I sat on my bed.

Confused people attack trees, I thought,

and are wise
for doing that
yet undisciplined. Parties should be used carefully...

I touched my pillow. He was glad

she still liked him, because all his friends

did not excite him. I picked up a Zen poetry anthology.

"We sit here together, the mountain and I,
until only the mountain remains." I lay on my bed.

We are recklessly at the center of infinite adventures, I thought.

I covered myself with my blanket.

I'm not going to get what I want, I thought.

LAST NIGHT I VIBRATED AND IT WAS SHAKY

and my brain saw 394adknsfkhei.
I wanted to scream COCONUT WATER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm better now. I still think it is a good idea to try to be happy.

I feel a lot of self-doubt, often to the point of stagnation.

I don't want to wash dishes
but there are only three.
Sadness is immoral.

Do you think I might be able to buy a house soon.

--- 3 QUESTION INTERROGATION ---

What do you write about?
I write about what happens to me and how I feel.
What is the best sentence you have ever read in your life that you can remember?
I felt very emotional when I read "Life is sad. Here is someone", in Anagrams by Lorrie Moore. I like "Yes, talking to people makes me feel like sleeping", in The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa.
What do you wear/drink/see/hear/do while you are trying to write some serious literature?
I sit on my chair at my desk and make sure that I am warm and that my legs can move freely. I change positions on the chair a lot. I usually wear pajama pants or jogging shorts or boxer briefs. Sometimes I move the space heater very close to my body and turn it on the "Low" setting. If I write after work I usually drink beer or yerba mate. If I write on a day off I will drink a coffee first, then drink yerba mate, or take an Adderall. I have only recently taken Adderall and have done it like three times but I think I will continue doing it because it makes me feel more interested and "focused" or something. I smoke a lot of cigarettes. If I listen to music, I listen to Boards of Canada on headphones. Sometimes my roommate comes in my room and checks his email on my laptop and I move to my bed and talk to him while he is on the computer. A lot of times I will stop writing to look at the internet or gmail chat with someone or read a novel. A lot of times I have two or three different stories or poems open at once and I switch between them. Sometimes I stop to play video games. Right now I mostly play the new Grand Theft Auto.

--- ONE STORY ---

Richard Yates
The door of the #14 bus is shut, and Richard Yates can see the bus driver in the front seat, eating a sandwich. He walks in front of the door and looks at the bus driver. It is an egg sandwich. The bus driver looks at him and holds out three fingers. She mouths "Three minutes." He thinks "stupid bitch." As he gets on the bus, the bus driver makes a face like what she did was normal. As he walks to his seat he wants to yell "bitch hat."
The bus turns a corner and Richard Yates can see his roommates—a couple—standing at the approaching stop. He has a feeling that this is supposed to be funny. He decides to ask his roommates if this situation is ironic. The bus stops and he gets his face ready by making it more alert. He forms a small grin. He tries to look like everything makes sense. They get on the bus and he grins even wider. He sees himself grinning from another passenger's perspective. He feels superior to everyone on the bus because he knows two people getting on the bus. The girlfriend gets on the bus, looks at him and sits down. Richard Yates' brain stops processing internal monologue. The boyfriend gets on the bus, doesn't look at him and sits down next to the girlfriend. Richard Yates can't think anything for a second. Then he feels lame.
That night, he takes apart a capsule of Adderall and crushes its tiny time-release beads by placing a piece of paper over them and vigorously rubbing it with an empty bottle of Heineken. Later, as he works on a story an online literary magazine had solicited him for, he notices grammatical errors running throughout the piece, and the errors seem to have a sort of pattern or method. He had written "Carol was especially glad of the prospect time alone with husband," and "And only then, kissing her, did he begin to find out what she like." He grins and thinks "Chuckling to myself." He pictures himself grinning sheepishly. He thinks "I don't know. . ." He stands up from his desk chair and jogs out of his room. He does a swimming pool dive onto the couch in the living room. He makes a loud moan.
At midnight he's standing on the deck patio of a bar, talking to a girl much taller than him. They are both sitting so Richard Yates feels like it's okay. Her hair is shiny and molded. He asks her why her hair is shiny and molded. She says that her hair is normally this way. He asks her if she is using hairspray. She says that this is just how her hair is. He feels interested in the conversation without any sense of detachment. He says that he hardly ever washes his hair. He says that he just lets water run through it. He tells her the name of the shampoo he uses when he actually does wash his hair. He tells her that he purchased it at an upscale salon in downtown Seattle for $16. He feels like the night is going okay. Sometimes he feels like everything is temporary. He has conversations with several girls in which he has only minimal feelings of awkwardness and role playing.
One girl—a friend of the taller girl—had asked Richard Yates if he was a writer after the taller girl left to get a drink. He had hesitated, looked at his feet, and said quietly, "Yes." He had asked her how she knew that. "Because you don't look at me when you talk," she had said. They had talked for awhile and when Richard Yates asked for her number, he detected a tiny wince controlling her face for a second.
The next morning, Richard Yates wakes up. Staring at his ceiling, he understands that this is a morning. He thinks that he will have to do things until he falls asleep. He tries to think of what he will do and imagines his face moving around in slow-motion, blurred. Richard Yates is afraid. He thinks of all the conversations he had last night. Using the full power of his facial muscles he squeezes eyes shut and says "Stupid."

Kendra Grant Malone lives in Brooklyn and writes on her blog, Tricoteuse. She also has a blog called "Dear Delores", which is a series of letters she writes to her cat.

--- 3 QUESTION INTERROGATION ---

What do you write about?
Myself.
What is the best sentence you have ever read in your life that you can remember?
I cannot narrow it down to one. But I can narrow it down to three.
- "She was entirely alive."
- "I'm ok, you're ok."
- "For the final consummation and for me to feel less lonely, my last wish was that there should be a crowd of spectators at my execution and that they should greet me with cries of hatred."
What's it like hanging out and getting drunk with other authors of serious literature?
It's like getting fucked by a very large glass dog.

--- TWO POEMS ---

In The Mountains


we were in the air
in the mountains
and she said to me
it is so beautiful
and she focused far
it was silent for
a while
then I said
it kind of looks like
someone whose hair
is thinning
and she gazed at me
disgusted
and just mildly
hateful
she said
i love you little sister

I Never Believed In God

i just saw a kitten
dead in the road
it was completely flat
smashed
with blood all around it
and brains splayed out

i have seen that kitten
around the neighborhood
when it was alive
there is a whole litter
that roams

i wanted to get a shovel
and scrape it up
then bury it somewhere

when i lived in minnesota
and i saw a dead animal
i always buried it
and said a prayer
even though i never believed
in god
i just hate
leaving a creature
like that
it seems so undignified

but today
i saw the kitten
and i realized
in new york
there is no turf
to bury it under

i stood on the balcony
watching cars run it over
again and again

after a while
i went inside
and my little kitten was on my bed
sleeping
it was the one
i yell at a lot
and spray with water

i took off my scarf
and wrapped her in it
made a little bed
and scratched her head
but it did not
change anything

--- 3 QUESTION INTERROGATION ---

What do you write about?
I write poems about things that I think and feel and I write stories about things that happen to me or things that I do. Lately I have been writing about anger. I think I feel very generalized anger during quiet times. Like while I am trying to fall asleep or when I am walking through large empty parking lots. Sometimes this generalized anger gives me visions of agressive physical action being perpetrated by me against helpless creatures including obviously weak human beings.
What is the best sentence you have ever read in your life that you can remember?
"Halfway up I realized I didn't care about anything upstairs, so I laid down."
Where do we go to read serious literature on the internet?
If you go to Blake Butler's blog you will find a lot of serious-literature-on-the-internet links.

--- TWO POEMS ---

i am writing this poem to show how bored angry i am
read it
look at it
it is a perfect example of today's America
i just said today's America
nobody is poor
nobody is starving
i kill everyone i see
because i really believe
in overpopulation
in utilitarianism
in reducing pain and suffering
overpopulation contributes a great amount
when i kill people i am alleviating overpopulation and reducing long term pain and suffering
i don't eat meat
i kill people
i punch everyone i see in the face
if that doesn't kill them
i tell them that i will never be their friend

How I Feel

I don't want to live in a room.
I don't want to eat breakfast in one.
I don't want to write a poem.
I want to walk.
I want to start walking.
I want to start walking and then I want to stop walking when I want to stop, if I want to.
I want to sit on a rock or a log, if I want to sit.
I want to eat something for lunch.
Then I want to start walking again, if I want to.
I want to stop just before it's dark. Or keep on walking if I want to.
I want to go to sleep.
I want to wake up and when I wake up, I want to start walking, if I want to.
I want to do this for a very long time.
I want to die someday from cancer or heart failure or a set of teeth to the throat.
I want that to happen while I'm walking.