Category: Jincy Willett

Jincy Willett

Actually, the Sniper’s sense of humor frightened Amy more than anything else. The parody of Carla’s poem had been witty, the rudeness of Marvy’s critique outlandish, and she was still, for some reason, focused on that “youse” in the Sniper’s counterfeit email. “Youse” was like a spectral elbow to Amy’s ribs. Dangerous, malevolent people should not be amusing. In order to be humorous, you had to have perspective, to be able to stand outside yourself and your own needs and grudges and fears and see yourself for the puny ludicrous creature you really are. How could somebody do that and still imagine himself entitled to harry, to wound, to kill?

Jincy Willett

People who wrote novels about universities hardly ever got them right. Max had spent his short working life untenured, but still he’d managed to be a charming magnet wherever he taught, and Amy had surfeited on faculty gossip and professorial antics and the general behavior of academics, who were as a whole no more brilliant or Machiavellian than travel agents. They tended toward shabbier clothes and manners, and of course there was the occasional storied eccentric or truly original mind, but most college campuses — especially the older ones — functioned less as brain trusts than as wildlife preserves, housing and protecting people who wouldn’t last a week in GenPop.

Jincy Willett

Jenny Marzen is who again?” Amy knew perfectly well who she was. Jenny Marzen was hot, hotter than Amy had ever been, and Jenny Marzen would be washed up in ten years and didn’t know it. “And Jenny is my number one fan?””No, but she likes you. She read your stories in grad school.””What is she, twelve?””The point is, she really liked the article, and all that stuff about experience and news. Lex says she says you’ve got gravitas.””That’s a dirty lie. I never even had mono.

Jincy Willett

When she was eighteen years old she had almost drowned in the Kennebec River, not because of the pummeling current, but because she couldn’t come up with a casual phrase with which to call for rescue. “Help!” was such a cliche. By the time she was willing to scream, she had no breath left, and it was just blind luck that somebody saw her gasping and floundering and pulled her to shore. “Why didn’t you say something?” they wanted to know, and she said, “I’m not a screamer.” “Jesus,” said one of them, “couldn’t you have made an exception this one time?” “Apparently not,” she said.

Jincy Willett

If something was worth writing down, it was worth writing down in full. And she had a horror of lists–grocery lists, Christmas card lists, and most grisly of all, to-do lists. Lists, like appointment books, were nails driven into the future. She knew this was an odd objection to be raised by a person whose daily life was utterly predictable, who never threw caution, or anything else, to the winds, who never packed light, because she never packed at all. Still, the future was a sleeping monster, not to be poked.