It's Finished. Everything Went Past, Without Me.

We're [writers] All Afraid Of Writing Badly, And There Are Psychological Reasons, Like The Bad Interior Of Ourselves Is Somehow Being Revealed, But We All Fear That, And You Can't Write Well If You're Not Willing To Write Badly. That's Why You Have To Make Writing A Habit, So It Feels Normal And Not Strange.

So I Feel That Lack Of Qualification. And I'm Scared. And I Have A Tendency To Think Things May Not/probably Won't Work Out. That's My Basic Mindset.

When The Clock Stops On A Life, All Things Emanating From It Become Precious, Finite, And Cordoned Off For Preservation. Each Aspect Of The Dead Person Is Removed From The Flux Of The Everyday, Which, Of Course, Is Where We Miss Him Most. The Quarantine Around Death Makes It Feel Unlucky And Wrong--a Freakish Incursion--and The Dead, Thus Quarantined, Come To Seem More Dead Than They Already Are.... Borrowing From The Dead Is A Way Of Keeping Them Engaged In Life's Daily Transactions--in Other Words, Alive.

That Adage About 'write What You Know' Is Basically The Opposite Of The Way I Function. I Write About What I'm Curious To Find Out.

The Answers Were Maddeningly Absent—it Was Like Trying To Remember A Song That You Knew Made You Feel A Certain Way, Without A Title, Artist, Or Even A Few Bars To Bring It Back.