In My Head There's A Broken Balcony

The Worst Of It Is Over Now, And I Can't Say That I Am Glad. Lose That Sense Of Loss—you Have Gone And Lost Something Else. But The Body Moves Toward Health. The Mind, Too, In Steps. One Step At A Time. Ask A Mother Who Has Just Lost A Child, How Many Children Do You Have? "four," She Will Say, "—three," And Years Later, "three," She Will Say, "—four.

I Moved Through The Days Like A Severed Head That Finishes A Sentence.

I Started Writing By Doing Small Related Things But Not The Thing Itself, Circling It And Getting Closer. I Had No Idea How To Write Fiction. So I Did Journalism Because There Were Rules I Could Learn. You Can Teach Someone To Write A News Story. They Might Not Write A Great One, But You Can Teach That Pretty Easily.

I Leave A Lot Out When I Tell The Truth

I Know When A Story Is Finished When There Is Not A Single Thing More I Can Think To Do To It. And Since I Know At The Start What The Last Line Will Be, I Know When I've Reached That Point As Logically As I Can That It's Finished. As For The Rewriting-it's Not Foolproof, Of Course, But If You're Honest About Having Thought Of Every Possibility And You Still Come Back To What You Have, What More Can You Do?