The second "how I became a writer" novel (even if this one is autobiographical) I've read in a while, and it couldn't be more different from The Idiot. Woodson revels in the tempest of impressions, words, people, memories and the only-noticeable-in-hindsight thrum of history of growing up and realising you're part of something, using poetry to shine little pinhole spotlights on one image at a time and narrative to piece them together.

I didn't just appear one day. I didn't just wake up and know how to write my name.