I grew up in a haunted house, reading Dr. Seuss.
This makes me sound like some new age, crystal-worshipping weirdo, but the woods behind my house really felt haunted by the past when I was a kid.
I was haunted by a bear attack that happened in Algonquin Park in 1991. The problem was that I don’t believe in ghosts, so that ruled out an exorcism. My other choice was to start writing.
When I go to Afghanistan, I realize I’ve been spared, due to a random genetic lottery, by being born to people who had the means to get out. Every time I go to Afghanistan I am haunted by that.
I don’t want them to read what I’m writing and say, ‘I think that’s right,’ and agree with me. I want them to read something and then walk away and be haunted by it.
