Are good fiction writers necessarily good liars?
I've been thinking about lies lately. Lies, half-truths, white-lies, lies of omission. I've never been a good blatant liar. I have, however, perfected the game face. I'm even ok at the blinders [you know, the kind you put on to ignore the horrors in life, like we're all going to die, you're eating the flesh of a dead animal, everybody shits], although not nearly as good as many people are, which I think puts me at a disadvantage in the enjoyment of living.
I've been thinking a lot about it, and just when I think I've started to shed it—the game face—something always happens that demands even more. Lately it's the only way I imagine people can survive in this fuck of a world.