Or - Perhaps - I Should Just

It's A Shame That Creativity And Sloth Look Exactly The Same.

Every Decade Of My Life I Attempted To Write A Novel. But I Had Nothing To Say. I Was Far Too Self-absorbed, And Now I Realize I Was Writing For Others, So That They'd Applaud Me, See My Genius, Tell Me How Wonderful I Am, Or Be Jealous Of My Success.

Winning Doesn't Mean My Book Is Better Than Anyone Else's. It Means I'm Very Fortunate. And I Should Be Very, Very Aware Of That. And Grateful.

I Went Through A Period In My Life When I Had No Friends, When The Phone Never Rang, When I Thought I Would Die From Loneliness. I Know That The Real Blessing Here Isn't That I Have A Book Published, But That I Have So Many People To Thank.

To Be Silent. In Hopes Of Not Offending, In Hopes Of Being Accepted. But What Happened To People Who Never Spoke, Never Raised Their Voices? Kept Everything Inside? Gamache Knew What Happened. Everything They Swallowed, Every Word, Thought, Feeling Rattled Around Inside, Hollowing The Person Out. And Into That Chasm They Stuffed Their Words, Their Rage.