Marisa Crane

Dept. of Speculation meets Black Mirror in this lyrical, speculative debut about a queer mother raising her daughter in an unjust surveillance state In a United States not so unlike our own, the Department of Balance has adopted a radical new form of law enforcement: rather than incarceration, wrongdoers are given a second (and sometimes, third, fourth, and fifth) shadow as a reminder of their crime—and a warning to those they encounter. Within the Department, corruption and prejudice run rampant, giving rise to an underclass of so-called Shadesters who are disenfranchised, publicly shamed, and deprived of civil rights protections. Kris is a Shadester and a new mother to a baby born with a second shadow of her own. Grieving the loss of her wife and thoroughly unprepared for the reality of raising a child alone, Kris teeters on the edge of collapse, fumbling in a daze of alcohol, shame, and self-loathing. Yet as the kid grows, Kris finds her footing, raising a child whose irrepressible spark cannot be dampened by the harsh realities of the world. She can’t forget her wife, but with time, she can make a new life for herself and the kid, supported by a community of fellow misfits who defy the Department to lift one another up in solidarity and hope. With a first-person register reminiscent of the fierce self-disclosure of Sheila Heti and the poetic precision of Ocean Vuong, I Keep My Exoskeletons to Myself is a bold debut novel that examines the long shadow of grief, the hard work of parenting, and the power of queer resistance.

A Novel

I Keep My Exoskeletons to Myself

Lindsay

Define loneliness? Yes. It’s what we can’t do for each other.

I wait for a reaction, but the kid seems unmoved. I want to be someone who moves people, even tiny, helpless people. Now, where is that switch, the one that turns off such a humiliating desire?

As I got older and gayer, I heard a lot of talk about chosen family, but I didn’t understand why something so beautiful had to be compared to family. Why couldn’t it just be its own good thing?

That first time, I couldn’t stop talking about wanting you while I was in the middle of having you, as if the act itself wasn’t enough— I had to make the universe know, too.

We are putting on an incredible performance of survival. Where is our prize?

Everyday decisions immobilize me— what to eat for dinner, which order to run the errands in, what to watch on TV. How could anyone expect me to make the big ones, the life- altering ones?

A smile leads to all kinds of malignant things, like having to hear the words I and love and you all over again.

I’ve heard it said that love is choosing to listen to how someone’s day went at least thirty thousand times. Love is saying, I am here, I am paying attention, and I care about that fight you had with your coworker. Beau, sometimes listening to you scream Fuck today, let’s go on a date was the only thing keeping me alive.

“Tell me about you,” she says, sipping her drink.

“That sentence,” I say, “nearly counts as assault.”

“The best way to love someone is to start with asking them how they’d like to be loved,”

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