At one point, I thought about trying to turn what eventually became Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life into some kind of novel. It seemed like that was what I was supposed to do, get serious and tackle fiction. If I had a page for every time someone asked, So, when you going to write a novel? I'd indeed have a novel by now. The implication always seems to be that this kind of writing is fine and all, but it's only a means to an end, a breezy warm-up for my inevitable fictional oeuvre. I suppose I could rise to the occasion one day; I like ginger now, and I used to think it tasted like soap.

But oh the idea of sitting in a room with all these scattered notes, observations, word chunks, and trying to cram them into a story (what story?) gave me heart palpitations. I'd have to have a beginning, a middle, and an end; I'd have to stitch it all together with segues; I'd need an arc. And then there's the real kicker, something I'm pretty sure is integral to fiction writing: the problem of making things up. I can't quite seem to get a handle on fabrication. I keep wanting to tell the truth, tell it like it is, like I saw it, like I felt it against my skin. 

Then it occurred to me: What if I gave all the scattered notes, observations, and word chunks to another writer, a good writer, one who knows his way around fiction, one who is my fiction-savvy better half, one who was fundamentally open to experimentation, and let him figure it out, let him write the definitive fictional permutation, as if there could ever be such a thing. 

Luckily someone said yes. And luckily that someone was John Green.

Click here for the Fictional Supplement

John Green works for Booklist magazine, where he reviews literary fiction and books about the Islamic world. His first novel is titled Looking for Alaska, forthcoming from Dutton in March. He is the sort of person who knows exactly how many girls he has kissed (54) and exactly how many states he has kissed them in (48). Maine and Hawaii, in case you're wondering.