I Prefer True Over Happy Now.

Sometimes When Reading Aloud To My Husband, I'll Start Crying. It Completely Stuns Me. As If The Words In My Body And On The Page - In Relation To Each Other - Are Cocooned Against My Own Feelings About What I'm Writing Until They're Loosed In The Air And Become Their Own. Then I Realize What I May Or May Not Have Done.

Basically If You Burst Into My Office The Walls Themselves Will Flutter As If Alive - Maybe That's The Reason For All The Wings In 'pure.

And I Know I'm Supposed To Feel Guilty For Wanting People To Buy My Books... And Books In General? Novels And Poetry, They Belong To The Realm Of Art. How Dirty Of Us To Try To Hawk Art! But, After A Decade Of Hand-wringing And Apologies, I Can't Quite Muster The Guilt Anymore.

Our Imaginations Are Strong As Children. Sometimes They Get Shoved Aside, These Imaginations. They Get Dusty And Mildewed With Age. The Imagination Is A Muscle That Has To Be Put To Use Or It Shrivels.

She Glances Back Before Stepping Into The Alley, And She Catches Her Grandfather Looking At Her The Way He Does Sometimes--as If She's Already Gone, As If He's Practicing Sorrow.