Since His Mother Died I Have Seen

I Do Feel That If You Can Write One Good Sentence And Then Another Good Sentence And Then Another, You End Up With A Good Story.

In My Head There's A Broken Balcony I Fall Off Of When I Speak.

The Only Time The Word Baby Doesn't Scare Me Is The Time That It Should, When It Is What A Man Calls Me.

I Think Of The Chimp, The One With The Talking Hands. In The Course Of The Experiment, That Chimp Had A Baby. Imagine How Her Trainers Must Have Thrilled When The Mother, Without Prompting, Began To Sign Her Newborn. Baby, Drink Milk. Baby, Play Ball. And When The Baby Died, The Mother Stood Over The Body, Her Wrinkled Hands Moving With Animal Grace, Forming Again And Again The Words: Baby, Come Hug, Baby Come Hug, Fluent Now In The Language Of Grief.

I Assemble Stories-me And A Hundred Million Other People-at The Sentence Level. Not By Coming Up With A Sweeping Story Line.