I Don't Need Art To Tell Me

And She Loved A Man Who Was Made Out Of Nothing. A Few Hours Without Him And Right Away She’d Be Missing Him With Her Whole Body, Sitting In Her Office Surrounded By Polyethylene And Concrete And Thinking Of Him. And Every Time She’d Boil Water For Coffee In Her Ground-floor Office, She’d Let The Steam Cover Her Face, Imagining It Was Him Stroking Her Cheeks, Her Eyelids And She’d Wait For The Day To Be Over, So She Could Go To Her Apartment Building, Climb The Flight Of Stairs, Turn The Key In The Door, And Find Him Waiting For Her, Naked And Still Between The Sheets Of Her Empty Bed.

I Rarely Return To Characters. My Characters, At Least Most Of Them, Are Much More A Part Of That Superorganism That Is The Story Than Separate And Independent Creatures.

For My Mother, Having A Family Was The Most Important Thing In Her Life. In The Second World War, It Was A Challenge - Surviving Physically And Mentally And Finding Somebody Who You Loved And Who Was Willing To Be With You.

He Felt Full Of A Dense And Sour Substance That Was Blocking His Chest, And It Wasn't Grief. After All Those Years, Life Now Seemed Like No More Than A Trap, A Maze, Not Even A Maze, Just A Room That Was All Walls, No Door.

When I Write, I Never Know The Endings. What I Think Works In [my] Stories Is The Fact That When I Write, I Really Want To Find Out What Is Going On-i'm Writing For Myself As A Reader. It's Like When You Dream A Dream. I Want To Know What's Behind The Door. If I Navigate, It's From A Place That's Totally Intuitive.