Em is full of stories, but she only actually writes some of them. The charming ones, the jolly ones, the quietly observant and sometimes even insightful ones. The stories Em writes are sort of sweet and light, like After-Dinner Mints. She’s fond of these stories, as she may as well be, because she thinks she may never write the stories she wants to write. How to write the stories that broil with frothy rage? How to craft the stories full of hurt and savagery? Em writes about a sweet guy who is toying with the idea of growing a handlebar moustache, while inside her head the other stories slither with the serpents of her dreams.