I Felt No Shame In These Activities,

I Guess In My Own Life, Privacy, Anonymity, And The Mystery Of Being Lost Are Important. I Also Feel That People Are Mysterious And Complex No Matter What They Do, And No Matter How Hard They Try To Reveal Their Own Mystery.

Some Mornings... I Sit At The Kitchen Table Shaking Salt Into The Hairs On My Arm, And A Feeling Shoves Up In Me: It's Finished. Everything Went Past Without Me.

I Hope To Keep Writing Journalism As Long As I Write Fiction; It's Afforded Me Such Amazing Adventures And Opportunities. It Does Take A Lot Of Time, So It's Hard To Do Both At Once, But I Try To Do A Big Journalism Piece Every Couple Of Years, And I'll Hopefully Continue With That.

I Write My First Draft By Hand, At Least For Fiction. For Non-fiction, I Write Happily On A Computer, But For Fiction I Write By Hand, Because I'm Trying To Achieve A Kind Of Thoughtless State, Or An Unconscious Instinctive State. I'm Not Reading What I Write When I Wrote. It's An Unconscious Outpouring That's A Mess, And It's Many, Many Steps Away From Anything Anyone Would Want To Read. Creating That Way Seems To Generate The Most Interesting Material For Me To Work With, Though.

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.