A tornado walloped Brooklyn last night, and on the bus ride home it hit me that for the first time in my adult life, I'm having fun writing. This realization sprang not from the electrical currents in the air but from the simple fact I'm reliving the most painful moments of my creative expression from a safe distance.
When I first started thinking about the various novels that really set fire to my brain and left the scorch marks to prove it, it became embarrassingly clear that I am not a First Novel Person.
It's one of my most annoying traits: I'm a novelist, but not a great lover of many novels, especially anything post-1960.
Before anyone asks, the answer is no. Nope, Jilly Kilroy is not me, and, non, I am not Jilly Kilroy.
Many people can isolate the exact moment when the spark took flight and, voila, they were in love, attached to another being unconditionally. A similar dynamic played out when I listened to The Clash after Lester Bangs educated me.
This eponymous blog is an attempt not just to say the things I didn't quite manage to spit out in my book but also to reveal a process: the knitting together of disparate influences into a message, that is, a book.