And While It Is Hard Enough To

Some Writers Pick A Topic And Write Around That, But I Like To Include It All.

I'm Really Interested In The Idea Of Anomynity And Familiarity. And Sunglasses, You Know, Are So Indicatitve Of That. I Mean, They're Worn By Some People To Hide Themselves. But They're Also A Fashion Statement, Meant To Be Noticed. So There's A Dichotomy There.

The Thing About Wes," Delia Said To Me, Unwrapping Another Package Of Turkey, "is That He Thinks He Can Fix Anything. And If He Can't Fix It, He Can At Least Do Something With The Pieces Of What's Broken.

When He First Put His Arms Around Me, It Was Tentative, Like Maybe He Expected I'd Pull Away. When I Didn't, He Moved In Closer, His Hands Smoothing Over My Shoulders, And In My Mind I Saw Myself Retreating A Million Times When People Tried To Do This Same Thing: My Sister Or My Mother, Pulling Back And Into Myself, Tucking Everything Out Of Sight, Where Only I Knew Where To Find It. This Time, Though, I Gave In. I Let Wes Pull Me Against Him, Pressing My Head Against His Chest, Where I Could Feel His Heart Beating, Steady And True.

Usually When I Finish The Draft Of A Book, I'm Sure I'll Never Write Another One. I'm Just That Tired And Sick Of Myself. But Then Another Idea Starts Percolating. It Usually Begins With The Narrator's Name, Then Some Idea That Intrigues Me About Her Life Or Situation. I Try To Ignore It As Long As I Can, Because I Know When I Start Writing, I'll Be Right Back Into It, Every Single Day. But Eventually, I Just Have To. It's A Compulsion!