Recently a cardiologist was operating on a patient, and it wasn't until 2 hours into the procedure that they realized it wasn't a heart at all, it was a Jessixa Bagley book. They are indeed virtually indistinguishable, the human heart and her books. One noticable difference is that the illustrations are better in the books. Jessixa is sharp and smart and loving and weird and I don't know how she makes feet so emotive but it's a thing to behold.
Like the majority of Seattle, I first encountered Lindy West when she was a writer at The Stranger. It was just thrilling to see her career expand, and since receiving The Lottery Grant she has gone on to write for The Guardian, publish a New York Times bestselling memoir, work with freaking Aidy Bryant on a show... Now - I'm not saying she's realizing her potential because of The Lottery Grant - I'm not saying it; I'm just typing it. You're welcome, Lindy; you're welcome, world.
First, go see Sarah read her poetry. No, wait, first buy all her books, and read them. Then, go see her read. No, actually, see her read first, so you can have her unique inflections in your head as you read. But sit down when you do so, because her writing is unstable. Sentences seem grammatically correct yet end up in completely unexpected places. Events fold back into themselves like a metaphor about boobs written on a piece of oragimi paper. There is only one Sarah Galvin in the world, but the good news is, she's ours.