There are some writers who are very, very good at pulling you into their lives and homes. Like fly-fishermen they cast out words, reel readers back in, tuck them in their creel and call it a good day. Their readers feel like they know them personally, and will genuinely care about their health, their children, their pets who are sick.
There are other writers who would rather you not know that their backyard is sloped, that their electric bill is sometimes paid late because they are forgetful, or that they nearly broke their toe last night (a ceramic coffee mug fell on it). They will tell you what it felt like when frost finally formed on the grass, that it turned the ground a milky sage, bursting with white crystals. That the first snow here was so short and so beautiful that it made them tear up a little (the snowflakes were fluffy tufts of goose down). These writers will tell you what the world looks like from inside their troubled hot heads.
There are still other writers who grab your hand and take you behind a red velvet curtain, showing you all sorts of deliciously deviant behavior. They invite you to be a voyeur, and join in the salt and sugar sweat if you’d like, and you do.