I Like Cooking, But I Think Someone

Tomorrow Exists Even Though I May Not Exist In It.

The Shadow Of My Mother Danced Around The Room To A Tune That My Own Shadow Sang.

All Of These Declarations Of What Writing Ought To Be, Which I Had Myself-though, Thank God I Had Never Committed Them To Paper-i Think Are Nonsense. You Write What You Write, And Then Either It Holds Up Or It Doesn't Hold Up. There Are No Rules Or Particular Sensibilities. I Don't Believe In That At All Anymore.

I Read About Writers Who Have Routines. They Write At Certain Times Of The Day. I Can't Do That. I Am Always Writing-but In My Head.

I've Never Let The Criticism Deter Me.