Ive Inherited A Sense Of That Loss

Each Day She Removes A Small Portion Of The Unwanted Things In People's Lives, Though All Of It, She Thinks, Was Previously Wanted, Once Useful. She Feels The Sun Scorching The Back Of Her Neck. The Heat Is At Its Worst Now, The Rains Still A Few Months Away. The Task Satisfies Her. It Passes The Time.

Still, There Are Times I Am Bewildered By Each Mile I Have Traveled, Each Meal I Have Eaten, Each Person I Have Known, Each Room In Which I Have Slept. As Ordinary As It All Appears, There Are Times When It Is Beyond My Imagination.

Amid The Gray, An Incongruous Band Of Daytime Blue Asserts Itself. To The West, A Pink Sun Already Begins Its Descent. The Effect Is Of Three Isolated Aspects, Distinct Phases Of The Day. All Of It, Strewn Across The Horizon, Is Contained In His Vision.

In New York I Was Always So Scared Of Saying That I Wrote Fiction. It Just Seemed Like, 'who Am I To Dare To Do That Thing Here? The Epicenter Of Publishing And Writers?' I Found All That Very Intimidating And Avoided Writing As A Response.

I've Seen Novels That Have Grown Out Of One Story In A Collection. But It Hasn't Occurred To Me To Take Any Of Those Stories And Build On Them. They Seem Very Finished For Me, So I Don't Feel Like Going Back And Dredging Them Up.