In Her Bottled Up Is A Woman

The Price Of Seeing Is Silence.

The Work Of The World Is Common As Mud. Botched, It Smears The Hands, Crumbles To Dust. But The Thing Worth Doing Well Done Has A Shape That Satisfies, Clean And Evident.

I Don't Find That Writing About Parts Of My Life Had Much Effect Except In Some Cases To Improve My Memory. To Get Into Parts Of The Past I Want To Recall Very Vividly, I Use A Form Of Directed Meditation.

Writing Is A Futile Attempt To Preserve What Disappears Moment By Moment. All That Remains Of My Mother Is What I Remember And What I Have Written For And About Her. Eventually That Is All That Will Remain Of [my Husband] And Me. Writing Sometimes Feels Frivolous And Sometimes Sacred, But Memory Is One Of My Strongest Muses. I Serve Her With My Words. So Long As People Read, Those We Love Survive However Evanescently. As Do We Writers, Saying With Our Life's Work, Remember. Remember Us. Remember Me.

Suppose That A Person Writes What She Must. That Is Only The First Step Of Becoming A Writer. The Work Must Survive The Moment Of Creation. It Must Get Out To An Audience. She Or He Must Dare To Show The Work. She Must Risk Ridicule, Misunderstanding, Scandal, Condemnation, & What's Often Worse, None Of The Above: Silence. No Attention At All.