There is something about language that is unlike anything else.

The mechanism of a word.

Word choice gifts a writer with the opportunity to mess around with language. Perfectly placing each word until a double meaning reveals itself or an adjective strengthens imagery because of a peculiar usage.

Or when words melt together, rhythmically playing off each other’s syllabic measure.

Authors who write with this complexity baffle me. They move from page to page with vivacious imagery as if they barely lifted their finger.

Emma Cline, author of The Girls, is one of my favorites.
However, the other day, one of my other roommates walked into my room bearing a light-pink

paperback book. The title is in bright yellow: Bunny by Mona Awad.

“I think you’ll love this,” she says.

Oh, how I do. It is a thrilling, strange, complex, and tender story.

Although the book is incredible, sharing my reading experience with her has been my favorite part.

When we cross paths in the room, her doe-eyes widen, “what part are you at?” she’ll say. “Is it not the wildest writing?”
“How does she even think of it?”

We talk, bewilderment bouncing off one another in total awe.

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