But It Was Another Girl, Young And

Kissing Mother Superior, Incompetent, Hairball, Poppy Seeds, On The Can.

I'm Always Happy," Sasha Said. "sometimes I Just Forget.

I Write Fiction Longhand. That's Not So Much About Rejecting Technology As Being Unable To Write Fiction On A Computer For Some Reason. I Don't Think I Would Write It On A Typewriter Either. I Write In A Very Blind Gut Instinctive Way. It Just Doesn't Feel Right. There's A Physical Connection. And Then In Nonfiction That's Not The Case At All. I Can't Even Imagine Writing Nonfiction By Hand.

They Resumed Walking. Alex Felt An Ache In His Eyes And Throat. "i Don't Know What Happened To Me," He Said, Shaking His Head. "i Honestly Don't." Bennie Glanced At Him, A Middle-aged Man With Chaotic Silver Hair And Thoughtful Eyes. "you Grew Up, Alex," He Said, "just Like The Rest Of Us.

There's Something Very Strange About Associating Me With That Prize. I Had Hoped For It In A More Directed Way As A Journalist. Somehow As A Journalist You Know There Are Pulitzers Out There And You Can Work Hard And Get One. To Win It For Fiction Seems Unbelievable.