Maybe That, Really, Is As Good A

When You Are The Woman Upstairs, Nobody Thinks Of You First. Nobody Calls You Before Anyone Else, Or Sends You The First Postcard. Once Your Mother Dies, Nobody Loves You “best Of All.” It's A Small Thing, You Might Think, And Maybe It Depends On Your Temperament, Maybe For Some People It's A Small Thing, But For Me [...]

I Think There's No Question That There's A Reason Why Small Children Make Great Art And Why Slightly Bigger Children Don't. And It's Because Small Children Don't Worry About What Anybody Else Thinks And Slightly Bigger Children Start To Worry About These Things.

It's The Strangest Thing About Being Human: To Know So Much, To Communicate So Much, And Yet Always To Fall So Drastically Short Of Clarity, To Be, In The End, So Isolate And Inadequate. Even When People Try To Say Things, They Say Them Poorly Or Obliquely, Or They Outright Lie, Sometimes Because They're Lying To You, But As Often Because They're Lying To Themselves.

I Believe That, In An Ideal World, Writers Would Feel Free To Write What Matters To Them Without Having To Consider Success, Failure, The Market, Etc.

We Live In A Culture That Wants To Put A Redemptive Face On Everything, So Anger Doesn't Sit Well With Any Of Us. But I Think Women's Anger Sits Less Well Than Anything Else. Women's Anger Is Very Scary To People, And To No One More Than Other Women Who Think: Oh, Goodness, Well, If I Let The Lid Off, Where Would We Be?