“You’re not a man,” he continued, “but you write the fuck out of ambivalent masculinity. You’re not a man and it doesn’t matter, because you write with sharpened senses and notice the unnoticed, and your creative intuition’s so powerful you can rock any narrative to sleep. You see. And you write. With Eight, I do the same thing.” He eyed her with an unmistakable familiarity. “I’m just not as good as you.”
