A Story ... Has A Sturdy Sense

But I Never Cleaned Thoroughly Enough, My Reorganization Proved To Be Haphazard, The Disgraces Came Unfailingly To Light, And It Was Clear How We Failed, How Disastrously We Fell Short Of That Ideal Of Order And Cleanliness, Household Decency Which I As Much As Anybody Else Believed In.

The Deep, Personal Material Of The Latter Half Of Your Life Is Your Children. You Can Write About Your Parents When They're Gone, But Your Children Are Still Going To Be Here, And You're Going To Want Them To Come And Visit You In The Nursing Home.

She Sits In Her Usual Ample Armchair, With Piles Of Books And Unopened Magazines Around Her. She Sips Cautiously From The Mug Of Weak Herb Tea Which Is Now Her Substitute For Coffee. At One Time She Thought That She Could Not Live Without Coffee, But It Turned Out That It Is Really The Warm Large Mug She Wants In Her Hands, That Is The Aid To Thought Or Whatever It Is She Practices Through The Procession Of Hours, Or Of Days.

I Want My Stories To Move People ... To Feel Some Kind Of Reward From The Writing.

She Would Live Now, Not Read.