Tenth of December

by George Saunders

What she liked was being in charge of her. Her body, her mind. Her thoughts, her career, her future. That was what she liked. So be it.

Because his feeling was, when you said you were going to do a thing and didn’t do it, that was how kids got into drugs.

Just then father (Emmett) appears, holding freshly painted leg from merry-go-round horse, says time for dinner, hopes we like sailfish flown in fresh from Guatemala, prepared with a rare spice found only in one tiny region of Burma, which had to be bribed out, and also he had to design and build a special freshness-ensuring container for the sailfish.

Ridiculous, don’t be big dreamers, be cautious, be frugal, world is cruel.

Death very much on my mind tonight, future reader. Can it be true? That I will die? That Pam, kids will die? Is awful. Why were we put here, so inclined to love, when end of our story = death? That harsh. That cruel. Do not like. Note to self: try harder, in all things, to be better person.

Do not know what she means. Or, rather, know, but do not agree. Or, rather, agree, but wish she would not say. Why say? Saying is negative, makes us feel bad about selves.

Pam says no, no: went on-line today: releasing SGs = felony (!). Does not feel they would prosecute eight-year-old, but still. If we confess, this goes on Eva’s record? Eva required to get counseling? This goes on her record? Eva feels: I am bad kid? Starts erring on side of bad, hanging out with rough crowd, looking askance at whole notion of achievement, fails to live up to full potential, all because of one mistake she made when little girl? No. Cannot take chance.

They were both so scared they weren’t talking at all, which made me feel the kind of shame you know you’re not going to cure by saying sorry, and where the only thing to do is: go out, get more shame.

Based on my experience of life, which I have not exactly hit out of the park, I tend to agree with that thing about, If it’s not broke, don’t fix it. And would go even further, to: Even if it is broke, leave it alone, you’ll probably make it worse.

And also, yes to there being something to us. You are by far the most insightful boy in our class. Even when I take into consideration the boys I knew in Montreal, I am just like: No one can compare. Well, that’s nice to hear, he said. Thank you for saying that. I know I’m not the thinnest. The thing about girls? Suzanne said. Is we are more content-driven.

When they were first married they used to fight. Say the most insane things. Afterward, sometimes there would be tears. Tears in bed? And then they would—Molly pressing her hot wet face against his hot wet face. They were sorry, they were saying with their bodies, they were accepting each other back, and that feeling, that feeling of being accepted back again and again, of someone’s affection for you expanding to encompass whatever new flawed thing had just manifested in you, that was the deepest, dearest thing

To me, fiction is the ultimate form of “doing something.” An idea or notion or image leaves the writer’s mind, goes directly into the reader’s, and has the potential to change what it finds there.

Fiction gets under our skin most, I think, when we find it impossible to distance ourselves from the narrated dilemma. What creates distance is when we look at a character and think, “Nope, not me, I would never have reacted that way.” Whereas if the character does pretty much what we would do in the given situation, and thinks the way we would think—then we can’t step away from him when the shit hits the fan.