Please explain what just happened.

I dunno.  It happened so fast.

What is your earliest memory?

Ennui.

If you weren’t a former drag queen turned ad executive turned goat farmer turned reality TV star, what other profession would you choose?

I’m not sure there are any left.

A main character in my upcoming novel* has feeble short-term memory. His pockets spill over with scraps of paper covered in scribbled notes like tattoos on the leathery arms of an aging biker. A minor character fills her study with bound books chock-a-block with the lists of her daily life.

I’m not a list person, although I often write notes to myself. In the car. In the bathroom. But in a way maybe these notes are lists — things to remember, events by which to gauge time, yet not in list form.

My book deals with memory, history, and the chronology of a life whose gaps are filled by the most unlikely sources.