Aimee Bender (born June 28, 1969) is an American novelist and short story writer, known for her surreal plots and characters.
I peeled the skin off a grape in slippery little triangles, and I understood then that I would be undressing every item of food I could because my clothes would be staying on.
While she cut the mushrooms, she cried more than she had at the grave, the most so far, because she found the saddest thing of all to be the simple truth of her capacity to move on.
I give boring people something to discuss over corn.
We hit the sidewalk, and dropped hands. How I wished, right then, that the whole world was a street.
That at the same time of this very intimate act of concentrating so carefully on the details of our mother's palm and fingertips, he was also removing all traces of any tiny leftover parts, and suddenly a ritual which I'd always found incestuous and gross seemed to me more like a desperate act on Joseph's part to get out, to leave, to extract every little last remnant and bring it into open air.
My genes, my love, are rubber bands and rope; make yourself a structure you can live inside. Amen. " — Aimee Bender (Willful Creatures: Stories)
Large meadows are lovely for picnics and romping, but they are for the lighter feelings. Meadows do not make me want to write.
Sometimes, she said, mostly to herself, I feel I do not know my children. . . It was a fleeting statement, one I didn't think she'd hold on to; after all, she had birthed us alone, diapered and fed us, helped us with homework, kissed and hugged us, poured her love into us. That she might not actually know us seemed the humblest thing a mother could admit.
The writing I tend to think of as 'good' is good because it's mysterious.
My eyelids are my own private cave, he murmured. That I can go to anytime I want.
I'm obsessed with adolescence. I love to write about people in their 20s. It's such a fraught and exciting and kind of horrible time.
When language is treated beautifully and interestingly, it can feel good for the body: It's nourishing; it's rejuvenating.
But I loved George in part because he believed me; because if I stood in a cold, plain room and yelled FIRE, he would walk over and ask me why.
I was right at the edge of their circle, like the tail of a Q. . .
. . . a Dorito asks nothing of you, which is its great gift. It only asks that you are not there.
and I get refill number three or four and the wine is making my bones loose and it's giving my hair a red sheen and my breasts are blooming and my eyes feel sultry and wise and the dress is water.
Mom flipped through the magazines like the pages needed to be slapped.
The wine glasses are empty except for that one undrinkable red spot at the bottom.
I like birthday cake. It's so symbolic. It's a tempting symbol to load with something more complicated than just 'Happy birthday!' because it's this emblem of childhood and a happy day.
Not getting bored of my own story andor character is one of the main struggles I have had with novel writing, and I have put to bed big chunks of work that just didn't sustain my interest.