He Could Not Wait To Get Rid

I Thought, My Love Is So Good, Why Isn't It Calling The Same Thing Back.

I've Always Known When I Start A Story What The Last Line Is. It's Always Been The Case, Since The First Story I Ever Wrote. I Don't Know How It's Going To Get There, But I Seem To Need The Destination. I Need To Know Where I End Up. It Never Changes, Ever.

Good Leaders Being Scarce, Following Yourself Is Allowed.

I'm Not First And Foremost Interested In Story And The What-happens, But I'm Interested In Who's Telling It And How They're Telling It And The Effects Of Whatever Happened On The Characters And The People.

I Think Of The Chimp, The One With The Talking Hands. In The Course Of The Experiment, That Chimp Had A Baby. Imagine How Her Trainers Must Have Thrilled When The Mother, Without Prompting, Began To Sign Her Newborn. Baby, Drink Milk. Baby, Play Ball. And When The Baby Died, The Mother Stood Over The Body, Her Wrinkled Hands Moving With Animal Grace, Forming Again And Again The Words: Baby, Come Hug, Baby Come Hug, Fluent Now In The Language Of Grief.