I think so much of contemporary discourse about writing and reading involves statements of needing to “be seen” in fiction, to find recognition—but there’s also, for me, a deep pleasure in experiencing narratives of difference, to sit in lives, for a while, that are not my own.

I have a vivid memory of being in a home where they kept taxidermied hunting trophies in a room that was probably 20’x15.’ The walls were covered by at least two dozen deer heads. Having that many frozen eyes staring at you is pretty unsettling.

I was also thinking of how predatory nostalgia can be. It can be comforting to sink into remakes and sequels and old favourites and I’m as guilty of this as anyone. But that comfort can also be a trap. Christie’s replica bedroom is one example, as are the other guests feasting on their past. The Concierge is a manifestation of the temptation to live in eternal stasis.

I was one of the interpreters/co-navigators with a DeafBlind writer at a residency program, so we spent a lot of time together, and in between chatting about books and writing, we folded origami. I’d grown up folding paper cranes, but to fold with my DeafBlind friend required different techniques than making the folds by sight.