D A N I E L L E D U T T O N
__________________________________________________________INTERVIEW BY JOSHUA MARIE WILKINSON
I first met Danielle Dutton in 2004 in Denver. After reading her wonderful and hilarious first collection of stories Attempts at a Life (March 2007, Tarpaulin Sky Press), I approached Danielle about conducting an interview. The following conversation happened over email in January and February 2007.
JMW
Joshua Marie Wilkinson:
You have two new projects forthcoming: a collection, Attempts at a Life (Tarpaulin Sky Press, 2007), and a novel, SPRAWL (Clear Cut Press, forthcoming in Series Two). I wonder if you work on projects simultaneously or are they totally separate worlds. Do they leak into each other or do they mark unique periods of work?
Danielle Dutton:I like the idea of working simultaneously on several things. I remember Laird Hunt saying he does this. While working on one project he's able to figure out something the other needs, or he sees one project better through the lens of the other. I like the mental copia of that process; I don't work that way myself. So far what happens is that I basically get obsessed with whatever I'm working on and then everything in my life filters into it. I don't seem able to keep a writing project separate from whatever else I have going on (teaching, reading, watching TV, etc.). What I mean is: I'll be writing in the morning and get stuck and then something about waiting for the bus that evening at a busy intersection will solve whatever it was I was trying to do in the work. I might implode if I had two projects competing for attention in this way. That said, I'm not someone who's always writing. Much of Attempts at a Life was written in Chicago, before I came to Denver. It feels really specific to what I was doing and reading at that time. I wrote SPRAWL at least a year after Attempts at a Life was (more or less) finished. Between the two I wrote almost nothing. The actual writing of SPRAWL came in a crazy burst after I'd been stewing on it for months.
Joshua Marie Wilkinson:
In a two-part article on the novel in The Guardian, Zadie Smith says that “Writers know that between the platonic ideal of the novel and the actual novel there is always the pesky self—vain, deluded, myopic, cowardly, compromised.” Attempts at a Life seems so chalk-full of personality—quirks, hilarity, wonder—that I'd be curious to know how you think of personality in your work, and how much of the "self" (which Smith admits is a turgid ground to explore) determines your writing?
Danielle Dutton:
I don't think I have any ideal sense of what a novel might be—any novel—nor usually any sense at all of what I want to have happen when I sit down to write. One of my favorite parts of writing is the scary freedom of diving in blind. The fertile void is what my Dad calls it. Anyway, I think with Attempts at a Life what determined a lot of what happened was what I was reading and how I was reading what I was reading. So there is likely some tracking of the self there via reading (reading the world, the source texts, myself, others, etc.) that gets all mixed up. Maybe this mix makes up the personality of the book? Maybe I stole personalities like I stole lines? I think, for example, that something about the personality of Jane Eyre, the character, made me write "Jane Eyre." She's very bossy.
Joshua Marie Wilkinson:
In part, Attempts at a Life is an exploration of literature: of Woolf, Charlotte Brontë, Henry and Alice James, Stein, Ann Quin, several others. In The Pleasure of the Text, Barthes writes: "Flaubert: a way of cutting, of perforating discourse without rendering it meaningless." Your own "Selections from Madame Bovary" seems to take this passage of Barthes' literally; I wonder if you could talk about the way the pieces in Attempts at a Life speak with, gather momentum, and veer away from these authors.
Danielle Dutton:
Wow, I don't remember that line from Barthes, but, yes, it definitely speaks to what I was trying to do in that specific piece, the idea for which actually originated with my reading of Jackson Mac Low's "Ridiculous in Picadilly" in his The Virginia Woolf Poems. In the back of that book, Mac Low explains that he wrote "'Ridiculous in Picadilly" by drawing on Woolf's The Waves via a method he calls "diastic" or "spelling-thru." He goes on to offer a detailed explanation of this method, which is pretty mathematical. Without choosing what words from her text made it into his (beyond simply following his system), Mac Low created poems that, to me, sort of magically evoke Woolf's book. All that got me thinking about the extent to which narrative might be embedded in words themselves, or the way that words might have narrative resonance even out of context.
But I digress: the relationship to literature—to the source text(s)—is different in my book from piece to piece. Often the pieces started by just jumping off something I found irritating or confusing or funny in a source. I guess some are sort of undoing/rewriting or, rather, addressing something directly to a source, a kind of challenge or statement. Yet even that would be to my own reading of those texts, rather than to the texts themselves. Sometimes I just find someone else's language so beautiful that I want to work with it, recontextualize it and make it live a different life. But I never set out to repeat exactly what it was I found interesting in someone else's work, nor to simply extend it. I wanted to explore it from somewhere else, kick it around, see where it might take me beyond where I might end up on my own, as it were.
Joshua Marie Wilkinson:
I'd love to hear about the construction of Attempts at a Life. All the pieces are quite distinct and yet seem to form a disparate, connected whole—did you work towards a coherent whole? How did you decide on the order of the book?
Danielle Dutton:
The pieces popped up here and there over a few years. All told, I guess it was about a three or four year span...so it's hard for me to remember how I thought about the early work. I'm pretty sure I had no intention of putting them together into a book at first. I had never written a book, of course, so I had no idea how that might happen. Later, at some point, I started to see the connections. I mean, yes, I realized early on that I was writing a bunch of things that bounced off of other texts, but I wasn't really sure if I liked them at all or which ones I liked or if they would fit together. So I just wrote, and then after I had a bunch of pieces I started to think of them as a project, and then it became a question of what the project could contain...how it could fit together and also how it should not fit, not be too neat. Around this point I was sort of astounded at my audacity. Can I just stick all this stuff together and call it a book? I kept asking my poor husband, "Is this enough?" Shouldn't it be more...something? But it is what it is. I can try something else next time. I think that was a liberating thing to finally realize, that one book can only be one book (unless you're Borges).
Anyway, as for the order, I did spend a lot of time thinking about that. I once heard someone say she ordered her book by dropping all the pages on the floor and then pulling them together into a stack. Voila! Yeah, I did not do that. I obsessed over the structure. I really wanted the energy of the book to move in certain ways.
Joshua Marie Wilkinson:
Were there pieces that didn't make it in? or pieces that you'd hoped would fit but couldn't somehow?
Danielle Dutton:
Yes. There are all these things I started writing four or five years ago that I can't let go of but I can't make work. Some of them were born alongside pieces that did make it into the book...they feel connected to them, but only in my mind I guess. They're like phantoms now. But there were also a few pieces that I rewrote and rewrote and stubbornly insisted on getting "right" so they could make it in. "How I Met Mikhail" was one of those. It's almost unrecognizable from its first manifestation. And then there are one or two pieces that, in retrospect, maybe should have been left out. I won't say which.
Joshua Marie Wilkinson:
I'd love to hear about the shift from finishing Attempts at a Life to beginning and working on SPRAWL. What changed in your process or your approach? What did you learn from completing Attempts that carried over onto (or helped to inform or deepen) your work on SPRAWL?
Danielle Dutton:
I don't usually write from a place of knowing, so to go back and interpret with any authority what it was I was doing when I was unknowingly doing it feels a little weird. But, I do know for sure that there were two things that bothered me about Attempts that I wanted to "correct" in the next book (even before it was written, so I guess these things drove the writing in some way). One was that I wanted a book with no starts and stops. The pieces in Attempts are so short and disparate that I wanted to try to do the opposite...write a book with no seams. SPRAWL has no paragraph breaks. It's one continuous rush (or crawl, depending on my/your mood). The other thing was that, at the time I was finishing Attempts and transitioning into SPRAWL, I was reading/thinking a lot about the position of the US in the world (in various capacities), and I felt annoyed that my work hadn't been, to me, up to that point, overtly made up of the world around me (other than the books around me). But SPRAWL is not an attack so much as an exploration, which happens to focus on the American suburb, which happens to be a landscape I'm familiar with. And to me, the American suburb seems like an important part of the larger puzzle, worth paying attention to (which doesn't mean simply bemoaning it).
I guess that actually makes it sound like I did know what I was doing. But it didn't feel so at the time. At all! I should say, too, that there are similarities between the books. Both spin off other sources. I seem to be unable to write without something next to me. One big source in writing SPRAWL was a book of still life photography by Laura Letinsky. Another was Thoreau's Walden. A third was Georges Perec's Species of Spaces. I could go on.
Joshua Marie Wilkinson:
Danielle, I bumped into one of your students last night at the grocery store, and she mentioned your class and said that she loved it so much that one day she'd like to send you a gift of one-thousand golden birds! Obviously, I'm curious, now, to know how you teach in the creative writing classroom—what's your approach to the fiction workshop? What sorts of advice do you give to students? Do you have particular books that you especially love to introduce students to?
Danielle Dutton:
One of my first classes at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago was a wonderful hybrid seminar/creative writing class with Bin Ramke, on metamorphosis. I still remember Bin saying something about how most of what one learns in school happens outside the classroom...in
reading, writing, reflecting, epiphanies while cooking, dreaming, whatever. In my experience, there's really something to that. I think of myself as a guide when I teach. So it's my job to get amazing, provocative, fabulous, varied texts into my students hands/eyes/heads and then to provide them with doorways into that material, ways to talk about it, opportunities for interesting discussion or avenues into new work of their own (not surprisingly, I often have students use source texts as jumping off points for new writing). In a lot of ways, I think of creative writing classes as creative reading classes. I'm not so sure you can straight up teach a student to be a good writer, but you can teach her to be a good reader, a more active reader...and, in the long run, I think this active reading practice can help her become a better writer.
That said, I do talk about the basic "rules" of fiction and what different writers think about/do with them. Especially in Intro classes. I came to writing sort of late and never had much
introduction to things like POV or dialogue. As a consequence, I don't feel comfortable writing "natural" dialogue. My response to this has been to make speech acts something weird in my texts. Or, and this is really more to my point, it's possible I would never have felt comfortable writing naturalistic dialogue even if someone made me try; maybe that's just something about me and what I do. In an interview in the Denver Quarterly, George Saunders talks about "writing around that which you don't do well." If you dread writing dialogue or well-shaped scenes, he says, if you only do it because you think you're supposed to, maybe you should stop. "Style," he argues, "is then seen as a radical accommodation of one's actual skill set." It's an interesting
idea. I want to give students as many potential tools as possible for doing whatever it is they want to do on the page, but I also want them to consider this question of style. I'd much rather see someone risk something and fail than see them slavishly keep trying to do whatever it is they think fiction is supposed to do. The trick is to help them understand the difference between style and just sloppy, bad writing.
So, yeah, we read a lot. We talk a lot. We talk about outside reading and student work in really similar ways. As for specific texts: there's a novel I love to teach, by Irish ex-pat Meredith Brosnan, called My Dynamite. It is dyn-o-mite. I also like teaching Eleni Sikelianos' The Book of Jon; Sebald; stories, essays, and novels by Woolf; pieces from The Technicians of the Sacred; Stein; Joyce; Alice Notley; Ann Carson. I've returned in different classes to stories from Flannery O'Connor, David Foster Wallace, Herman Melville, Edgar Allan Poe, Robert Glück, Katherine Mansfield, Donald Barthelme, Diane Williams. Like all teachers, I want to find things that will challenge and engage my students simultaneously. This semester at Naropa I'm teaching Pamela Lu's Pamela: a novel for the first time. I'm excited about that. I'm also very excited about those one-thousand golden birds!
Joshua Marie Wilkinson:
You mentioned Pamela Lu, Diane Williams, and Robert Glück. What's your sense of innovative / experimental fiction and the publishing industry? It seems like there's an explosion of poetry presses (I can think of at least two dozen off the top of my head: Flood, Kelsey Street, Roof, Burning Deck, Ugly Duckling, Factory School, et al.) that publish less-mainstreamy kinds of projects. And both of your new books are coming out on two new-ish presses—Tarpaulin Sky Press and Clear Cut Press—on both coasts. What's happening in fiction now that you like or follow—authors, books, or presses? What do you think will happen to the world of fiction in the next decade or two?
Danielle Dutton:
I know it's difficult to get innovative fiction published, and yet I do manage to find a fair bit of it out there. And there are some newer small presses dedicating themselves to this work, such as Calamari Press, Leon Works, and Triple Press. One thing I think is interesting about Clear Cut is this idea that they, the press, cultivate a reading audience into which they introduce all sorts of texts that they, the press, are interested in. I guess to some extent that's true of any independent press, but I appreciate that Clear Cut takes an explicit interest in the phenomenon of the reader, of audience, and that their choices are not inhibited by genre. Tarpaulin Sky, too, is happily blurring that genre boundary. You mentioned a number of other remarkable presses. I'd add Dalkey Archive and Archipelago to that list right away. I've been reading a lot of translated work lately, not because it's like eating your vegetables, but because there are some fantastic books being written in other places and other languages. Some of the best I've read lately include Roberto Bolaño's By Night in Chile (New Directions), Patrik Ouredník's Europeana (Dalkey Archive), and Magdalina Tulli's Dreams and Stones (Archipelago). There are also some younger American prose writers who I'm really interested in, writers like Deb Olin Unferth, Pamela Lu, Renee Gladman, Selah Saterstrom, Mary Burger, others. I guess I "follow" them. As for the last part of your question, I have no idea. Writers will keep writing. I for one would love to see more cross-over in readers of innovative writing…I mean across lines of genre. I'd also like to see more readers of innovative work in general. Why is it, for example, that people who are into innovative film or music so often don't know anything about the world of innovative writing?
Joshua Marie Wilkinson:
I understand that you're from California, and that you've lived in Chicago and London, too. Do you feel that there's some certain ineradicable part of the west in you, some effect that the California (or any other) landscape has had on your work?
Danielle Dutton:I should say I never lived in London; I lived in Sheffield. A major metropolitan difference. But I dig Sheffield. It's a dirty place, salt of the earth. I loved driving around Yorkshire, too. I think the landscape there was already a part of my imagination in some way because of the Brontë sisters—early, passionate favorites. They do a fine job of painting it. And, in a way, I think those imaginative landscapes—from the Brontës to Austen, Calvino, Woolf, Kafka, Eliot, James, etc.—affect my writing as much as anywhere I've ever really been.
But, yes, California. I've lived up and down from Santa Cruz to LA; mostly I was right in the middle, in a town called Visalia. I feel confident telling you it's a pretty weird place. Or else it's painfully normal and I find that weird. It's conservative, for California. Up against the Sierras. No beach in sight. Lots of oranges, grapes, almond trees, dairy cows, alfalfa, strip malls, churches, SUVs, fog, strawberries, meth labs, smog, etc. So it's beautiful and sort of ugly. It's very western. There are rodeos, stockyards near Main Street, cowboy hats, a lot of Mexican food and more recently a lot of south-east Asian food. I'm pretty sure it was the California headquarters for the KKK at one point.
My mom is a Jew from NYC and my Dad is an Episcopalian from LA, so there's a story there...about how it was my brother and I were raised in this semi-rural place where there was (miraculously) one other Jewish kid at our high school. But there it is. It's my home whether I belong there or not. I'm loyal to it, which gives me the privilege of rejecting it, too. Part of that complex of feelings was one of the driving engines behind SPRAWL.
It's a fertile place, California. You can't stop the flora. You pave over it and it breaks back up through a crack in the asphalt. There's something powerfully creative in that.
Joshua Marie Wilkinson:
Can you describe your new project? Do you mind talking about the details of what you're working on while it's in progress? I know that your husband, Marty, is also a writer and an editor at Dalkey Archive. Do you share drafts and comments with one another or keep things under wraps?
Danielle Dutton:
I'm working on a collection of pieces set in seventeenth-century England that orbit the writer Margaret Cavendish. I've had ideas for this project for four years now, always just hanging out in the back of my mind, or in a notebook. And I've tried to come at the material from about a dozen different angles. I think you saw them, Josh, when they all started in gardens, which is gone now. Then the whole thing became a detective novel. Now it's something else entirely. It's fine, but it's frustrating...the experience of flailing about for voice and form. It's really the first time I've wanted to write "about" something instead of just diving into language and seeing what happens.
And, yes, Marty sees pretty much everything I'm working on. I don't write with a lot of discipline, I'll go weeks or months writing nothing and then all of a sudden I'll start overflowing with it. So when I'm writing, I get all excited, and I often read things to him practically as I'm typing them. I have this instant desire to share. He's an unbelievably insightful reader and editor. And he's great at giving me feedback without squashing something that's only been alive for a few minutes.
Joshua Marie Wilkinson:
What is the difference for you now that you have books published and forthcoming versus having manuscripts on your desk? Is it what you expected life to be like as a "writer"? Was there a moment that it hit you?
Danielle Dutton:It's exciting for me when people read my work. I suppose having books coming out means that that might happen with a bit more incidence. But it also freaks me out. I was talking with Selah Saterstrom the other day about how once a book is published, it (as she said) goes out into the world to have its own adventures and doesn't send postcards. It's a nice way of thinking about it. I'm happy for my books that they can go have adventures without me now (or soon). Still, I'm not sure I think life itself will be any different once I am officially "published." If it will be, I don't know how or why. I suppose once upon a time I thought that one day I'd magically become a real writer. But I can't quite remember what that meant. I think it meant I'd be a lot more interesting.
What about you? I'm curious
Joshua Marie Wilkinson:
It didn't really freak me out at first, since my first book came out on a tiny press that nobody had heard of, but then I didn't want to tell people about my second book; I sort of didn't know how, or something. I think I thought that it was going to be so fun, you know, to be able to talk about “my books” but part of me sort of withdraws if somebody I don't know asks me about it—not always, I guess. I do like it that people can connect with the work without me, that they can happen onto the work, or have it in the classroom; getting solicited for work also feels like a luxury that I never want to take for granted. Is there anything that you wished that you did differently, any piece of wisdom that you wished you'd known when you started out as a writer? Did you have that “I'm gonna be a writer!” moment in your life ever?
Danielle Dutton:When I started writing I barely knew what I was doing or why. In fact, I only started because a friend of mine was going to take an extension class at UCLA in graphic design, and she kept encouraging me to do a class too. I was sort of lost, early twenties, blah blah blah. So I enrolled in a fiction writing class and hit it off with the instructor. I was a little out of control at that time, and I pretty much knew I had to get myself out of the life I was living in LA, so I decided to apply to a few MFA programs, got in, and left. This all happened within a year! I definitely felt out of it when I got to Chicago. I hadn't been an English major as an undergrad; I didn't even know they had creative writing classes in college. Anyway, the Art Institute was probably the best place I could have landed. The emphasis was on making, on process, not on product, not on career.
Joshua Marie Wilkinson:What were your better classes like at the School of the Art Institute? You mentioned Bin Ramke's class, but what kinds of things did you write and read there? Was there much conversation between the writers and the artists?
Danielle Dutton:There was a lot of interaction between writers and artists, if you sought it out. For one thing, there are usually artists in your writing classes, and writers are encouraged (or required?) to take classes outside of the Writing Program. I took classes in bookmaking, fiber, filmmaking, etc. All of that interaction and art-talk definitely affected my writing, especially, I think, since writing itself was pretty new to me. And I also hung out for a while with some painting grads. That was interesting. There's still this potential to be an art star there that I don't think translates to writing. It was curious to watch them compete. There's so much passion in the process. They sleep in their studios. They get dirty. It's very seductive. I had been working in the music business in LA before that, and compared to that world and this new art world, writing seemed really quiet and private, which is possibly why it appealed to me.
Anyway, that fiber class was one of my favorites. There's a really sharp woman in the Writing Program named Sara Levine; all her classes were important to me. She teaches mostly narrative design and essayism, or she did then. Dan Beachy-Quick taught an amazing class called Ethos and Eros. We read Dickinson, Simone Weil, Blake, Nietschze, the Bible, Ann Carson, Aristotle, Sappho, Hopkins, Donne, Derrida, Duchamp, etc. There's a pretty wide range of teaching styles and aesthetic interests at the School. I tended toward the more "out-there" courses and instructors. Like Matthew Goulish, a performance artist/writer who teaches a class called Systems of Writing...so you read and talk about systems-based writing and then he concocts this elaborate system whereby students extend one another's work. I brought in this little story that a sound artist took away and did crazy awesome stuff with on some machine. Probably the most important aspect of the program for me was the huge amount of one-on-one time built into the course load. Every semester one of your classes is just you and an instructor doing something...working on a project, revising, reading, etc.
Joshua Marie Wilkinson:I sort of want to jump back to something you said earlier: beginning a project from a space of “about.” It seems like you got a sort of unconventional (i.e., amazing) education at the graduate level, and I'm horribly jealous of your description of what went on at that Art Institute. What do you do when you get stuck or the form (Cavendish…gardens…detective novel!) starts to shift? What's changing in your approach now to the project? Or what has completing Attempts and SPRAWL taught you about this?
Danielle Dutton:
I think I've learned to be patient. I used to worry that if I didn't get it all down right the first (or second) time, it was crap, it was doomed. Now I'm okay with the fiddling. It gets frustrating, sure, but it's also a lot of fun to try on those different forms or approaches. I'm no longer worried that there is some magic I'm going to lose if I have to put something away for a bit. If I get really stuck, I give it to Marty to read and then I pick a fight with him about it and then I feel a lot better and I'm ready to go!
Joshua Marie Wilkinson:
I understand that you used to make one-of-a-kind artist's books, or small, intricate chapbooks…Could you talk about those? What is the connection for you between the materials of the book to inventing with language as a writer? How important is the layout, the font, the cover art, the overall look and design of the work, its size and texture?
Danielle Dutton:I definitely fetishize The Book. One reason I was first drawn to Clear Cut, for example, is that their books are so pleasing physically. And then, happily, the writing inside has been wonderful as well. And Christian Peet at Tarpaulin Sky did an amazing job with Attempts at a Life. He's also doing a handbound version of all his perfect bound books. I have yet to see mine, but I can't wait. I had so much fun going back and forth with him about the cover, the font, the layout, etc for the perfect bound book. Your first book was very attractive, Josh. A lot of books from Ugly Duckling Presse and Flood Editions, too, blow me away as objects. Often I find children's books more pleasing as objects than grown-up books, which is too bad for grown-ups. I recently came across Maurice Sendak's first pop-up book, which engages with the book as a thing to hilarious effect. Steve McCaffery has interesting stuff to say about the way a book works in "The Book as Machine." That essay has infected my thinking lately, particularly about how a book can't compete with a movie or a TV show. It shouldn't have to. It moves differently. There are different pleasures in handling and traveling through a book. It's tactile and time-consuming.
I often think of my own writing in visual or sculptural terms. I won't know what a piece should be about, but I'll have a sense of what shape it should have, or what sort of light it should emit. So when it comes to the book itself, it seems right that, if possible, it should help to extend some of those ideas. And, yeah, I used to make all kinds of little books. They often had things on the pages instead of words. Things I broke in my apartment or things I found on the ground. I particularly loved how the pages of the hard-cover books were still folded in on themselves when the book was done. I wonder how it would be if people still had to cut the pages to read a book. It feels Victorian, sort of prissy and naughty at the same time. It's an intimate act...to get out your knife and slice each page. It forces the reader to be an active participant.
Joshua Marie Wilkinson:How do you deal with the question of accessibility, in your work or in teaching? Or, how might you confront the problem of "I don't get it" in your work or with work that you love and are trying to draw students into in the classroom?
Danielle Dutton:"I don't get it" is such a boring response, to anything. I try to avoid this in the classroom by offering students alternate ways of thinking about what writing might do/be. In one lit course on Modernism, we spent a lot of time looking at post-impressionist painting and reading art-history/theory texts before turning to something like Stein's "Tender Buttons." So the pressure was off in terms of reading it as you might read, say, an Agatha Christie novel and expecting it to work or mean in that way. Or I'll ask them to write about (or show me) how Woolf's "Kew Gardens" operates as a spatial object. I have a lot less experience talking about my own writing. I'm not sure how that conversation would go. If someone hated my work, I'd probably just mosey along...whereas in a class, I have a lot invested in my students' ability to engage with texts I've chosen.
Joshua Marie Wilkinson:
I'm interested in how humor works for you in your writing; I think Christian Peet described it, in an email to me, as hilarious wit and very witty humor; I laughed out, too, when I heard you read from Attempts at a Life and from SPRAWL—both, wonderful, both very funny. Is humor something you're conscious of? that you work toward? or how does it come to be in your work?
Danielle Dutton:The honest answer is that I have no idea how humor works in my writing or how it gets there in the first place. Sometimes it's not until I read a piece to others and hear them laughing that I realize that it is, in fact, quite funny. Sometimes I crack myself up as I'm typing...but what makes me laugh isn't always what tickles others. And sometimes I think my work is so hilarious that I can't stop laughing during my own reading, which is embarrassing. But I definitely don't try to be funny when I sit down at my computer. As I mentioned earlier, when I write I write very quickly. I rarely stop to consider what to do next...I just let it spill out and then I'll come back later and mess with it. The humor tends to come out, if it comes out at all, during that period of rapid typing. It seems like it happens accidentally. That's why it makes me laugh, I guess. It surprises me. I don't know if this is related, but I wake myself up laughing about once a month. I never know why I'm laughing, but I'm totally busting a gut.
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