Lonely People Are Always Up In The

Only Later Did I Come To Understand That To Be A Mother Is To Be An Illusion. No Matter How Vigilant, In The End A Mother Can't Protect Her Child - Not From Pain, Or Horror, Or The Nightmare Of Violence, From Sealed Trains Moving Rapidly In The Wrong Direction, The Depravity Of Strangers, Trapdoors, Abysses, Fires, Cars In The Rain, From Chance.

I'm Not Immune To The Readers' Desires. Sometimes They Are My Own, Because I'm A Reader, Too. The Readers' Desire To Know What Really Happened And What Didn't. To Have A Glimpse Into What's Really The Author And What Isn't. I Think We All Have That And I Wonder About What It Means.

I Try To Make A Point Of Being Seen. Sometimes When I'm Out, I'll Buy A Juice Even When I'm Not Thirsty. If The Store Is Crowded I'll Even Go So Far As Dropping Change All Over The Floor, Nickels And Dimes Skidding In Every Direction. All I Want Is Not To Die On A Day I Went Unseen.

Lonely People Are Always Up In The Middle Of The Night.

Why Does One Begin To Write? Because She Feels Misunderstood, I Guess. Because It Never Comes Out Clearly Enough When She Tries To Speak. Because She Wants To Rephrase The World, To Take It In And Give It Back Again Differently, So That Everything Is Used And Nothing Is Lost. Because It's Something To Do To Pass The Time Until She Is Old Enough To Experience The Things She Writes About.