Adam Johnson is quickly becoming one of those writer’s that I resent for their skill and the ease with which they display it. He plays with your emotions using prose so unassuming and lacking in ulterior motive that it disarms you until he decides he’s placated you enough and then punches you firmly in the nose.
He is a magician. A man who makes it look so very easy as I sit here fussing so uselessly over my own work. Every story in the collection is brilliant, some even perfect. They hit every mark they aim to strike even after rereading it years later the same level of awe still cuts directly into my veins. I have changed my mind, he is no magician, he is a warlock, someone who has cast a spell and enslaved some sort of literary demon and used its powers to create his art.
I hate you, Adam. That’s right I called you Adam. I hate you because I don’t know what else to do in the face of someone so practiced in layering plot, character, and surreality. No, leave me be, Adam. You’ve had your fun. Leave me to my inept scrawlings while I weep into my iced coffee.
“She and I were storytellers. Swapping stories constituted our good times. That’s what sustained our marriage until, I guess, stories weren’t enough.” ― Adam Johnson, Fortune Smiles