Writing fiction can cause hallucinations. In one that appeared before me last winter, I was 17 years old again, a nervous high school student with an overbite, wearing a paper bib around my neck and lying back in a large chair. After gargling with minty liquid, I opened my mouth wide and looked up, and looming above me, holding a gleaming metallic instrument, was Keanu Reeves. That was disconcerting enough, but even odder was the realization that we were not alone but were being watched by hundreds of moviegoers at the Sundance Film Festival in Utah.
That hallucination will be playing...
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