It Turns Up The Heat Under A

Writing Stories Is My Way Of Scratching That Itch: My Escape From The Claustrophobia Of Individuality. It Lets Me, At Least For A While, Live More Than One Life, Walk More Than One Path. Reading, Of Course, Can Do The Same.

Everyone's Got A Different Story.

It's All Real In Outside, Everything There Is, Because I Saw An Airplane In The Blue Between The Clouds. Ma And Me Can't Go There Because We Don't Know The Secret Code, But It's Real All The Same. Before I Didn't Know To Be Mad That We Can't Open Door, My Head Was Too Small To Have Outside In It.

I Found Motherhood A Crash Course In Existentialism (what Is My Purpose In Life, Am I Mistress Or Slave Of My Destiny, When The Hell Do I Get Some Sleep?) And [the Book] Room Was The Result.

I Tend To Be So Lost In The Work That I Don't Notice The Weather. My Partner Will Come Home And Say, 'beautiful Day, Wasn't It?' And I'll Say, 'was It?' As I Won't Have Noticed The Real World At All.