I've Subsequently Become Conscious Of Making Memories.

As A Writer, You Want To Go Somewhere Else Sometimes. You Want To Vary The Terrain That You're Exploring.

When My Husband First Read A Draft, He Said, "you Spend Too Much Time Describing The Characters' Outfits." He Was Right. I Removed Much Of The Clothes Talk, But Quite A Bit Remained.

I Developed A Crazy Face Rash After I Got Engaged To A Guy I Must Have Known Somewhere I Should Not Marry. I Hadn't Articulated This To Myself, So My Face Told The World Instead.

A Friend Of Mine Urged Me To See My Pain As An Opportunity. And Since The Same Psychic That Contacted Dion Fortune Had Told Me That I Was A "teacher" - She Didn't Mean At Columbia, She Meant In The Spiritual Sense - I Decided My Affliction Was The Universe Telling Me That It Was Time To Stop Writing Fiction And Become The Spiritual Guru I Was Clearly Meant To Be.

I Don't Think Fake People Living In A Fake House In A Fake Suburb Are Any Less Dismissible Or Believable Than A Fake Psychic Attending A Fake School In A Fake Town. Nothing's Inherently Believable About Any Kind Of Fiction, Because All Of It's Untrue.