I Asked Myself If I Would Kill

If You Were Wise Enough To Know That This Life Would Consist Mostly Of Letting Go Of Things You Wanted, Then Why Not Get Good At The Letting Go, Rather Than The Trying To Have?

I Asked Myself If I Would Kill My Parents To Save His Life, A Question I Had Been Posing Since I Was Fifteen. The Answer Always Used To Be Yes. But In Time, All Those Boys Had Faded Away, And My Parents Were Still There. I Was Now Less And Less Willing To Kill Them For Anyone; In Fact, I Worried For Their Health. In This Case, However, I Had To Say Yes. Yes, I Would.

Writing A Novel Was Like I Had Some Play-doh To Work With And Could Just Keep Working With It - Doing A Million Drafts And Things Changing Radically And Characters Appearing And Disappearing And Solving Mysteries: Why Is This Thing Here? Should I Just Take That Away? And Then Realizing, No, That Is There, In Fact, Because That Is The Key To This. I Love That Sort Of Detective Work, Keeping The Faith Alive Until All The Questions Have Been Sleuthed Out.

He Was Worried She Would Not Let Him Love Her With The Stain. He Had Already Decided Long Ago, Twenty Or Thirty Minutes Ago, That The Stain Was Fine. He Had Only Seen It For A Moment, But He Was Already Used To It. It Was Good. It Somehow Allowed Them To Have More.

It Was An Act Of Devotion. A Little Like Writing Or Loving Someone — It Doesn’t Always Feel Worthwhile, But Not Giving Up Somehow Creates Unexpected Meaning Over Time.