In Life We Sit At The Table

Why Does One Begin To Write? Because She Feels Misunderstood, I Guess. Because It Never Comes Out Clearly Enough When She Tries To Speak. Because She Wants To Rephrase The World, To Take It In And Give It Back Again Differently, So That Everything Is Used And Nothing Is Lost. Because It's Something To Do To Pass The Time Until She Is Old Enough To Experience The Things She Writes About.

You’re Lost In Your Own World, In The Things That Happen There, And You’ve Locked All The Doors. Sometimes I Look At You Sleeping. I Wake Up And Look At You And I Feel Closer To You When You’re Like That, Unguarded, Than When You’re Awake. When You’re Awake You’re Like Someone With Her Eyes Closed, Watching A Movie On The Inside Of Your Eyelids. I Can’t Reach You Anymore. Once Upon A Time I Could, But Not Now, And Not For A Long Time.

For Her I Changed Pebbles Into Diamonds, Shoes Into Mirrors, I Changed Glass Into Water, I Gave Her Wings And Pulled Birds From Her Ears And In Her Pockets She Found The Feathers, I Asked A Pear To Become A Pineapple, A Pineapple To Become A Lightbulb, A Lightbulb To Become The Moon, And The Moon To Become A Coin I Flipped For Her Love.

. . . I Would Have Let Him Go One Finger At A Time, Until, Without His Realizing, He'd Be Floating Without Me. And Then I Thought, Perhaps That Is What It Means To Be A [parent] - To Teach Your Child To Live Without You.

I Feel Really Strongly About Not Wanting To Overly Guide The Reader About What He Or She Should Think. I Really Trust The Reader To Know For Themselves And Not To Need Too Much. You Have Your Own Imagination, Your Own Experiences, Your Own Feelings, And A Novel Wants Ultimately To Ask Questions. It Doesn't Assert Anything, Or Shouldn't, I Think.