I Read Pretty Voraciously. If It's Good,

What I Discovered I Liked Best About Striking Out On My Bicycle Was That The Farther I Got From Home, The More Interesting And Unusual My Thoughts Became.

I Told Him The Truth, That I Loved Him And Didn't Regret Anything About Our Lives Together. But Do We Ever 'tell The Truth, The Whole Truth, And Nothing But The Truth, So Help Me God' As My Father Used To Say, To Those We Love? Or Even To Ourselves? Don't Even The Best And Most Fortunate Of Lives Hint At Other Possibilities, At A Different Kind Of Sweetness And, Yes, Bitterness Too? Isn't This Why We Can't Help Feeling Cheated, Even When We Know We Haven't Been?

He'd Discovered That His Memories Of That Summer Were Like Bad Movie Montages - Young Lovers Tossing A Frisbee In The Park, Sharing A Melting Ice-cream Cone, Bicycling Along The River, Laughing, Talking, Kissing, A Sappy Score Drowning Out The Dialogue Because The Screenwriter Had No Idea What These Two People Might Say To Each Other.

I Suppose All Writers Worry About The Well Running Dry.

I Think A Lot Of What Is Going On With Kids Who Get Pushed Too Far And Attempt Either Murder Or Suicide Is That They Are Trying To Deal With Their Own Non-existence For The People Who Are Supposed To Care Most For Them.