Half A Page--and The Morning Is Already

She Had Lived In That House Fourteen Years, And Every Year She Had Demanded Of John That She Be Given A Pet Of Some Strange Exotic Breed. Not That She Did Not Have Enough Animals. She Had Collected Several Wild And Broken Animals That, In A Way, Had Become Exotic By Their Breaking. Their Roof Would Have Collapsed From The Number Of Birds Who Might Have Lived There If The Desert Hadn't Killed Three- Quarters Of Those That Tried To Cross It. Still Every Animal That Came Within A Certain Radius Of That House Was Given A Welcome-the Tame, The Half Born, The Wild, The Wounded.

We Keep Wanting To Save Those Who Are Forlorn In This World. It’s A Male Habit.

What Began It All Was The Bright Bone Of A Dream I Could Hardly Hold Onto.

When I Write My Novels I Don't Really Have A Huge Plan Beforehand; I Don't Have The Whole Plot And Architecture, So The Story Is Sort Of Discovered As I Write It.

I Don't Have A Plan For A Story When I Sit Down To Write. I Would Get Quite Bored Carrying It Out.