The Few People Who Ask To Have

This Is One Of The Defining Sorrows Of Books: That We Cannot See One Another.

For Many Years, People Would Say, "only Child? Must Have Been Terrible," And I Wanted To Say, "you Are Mentally Ill, Because It Was The Greatest." You Got All The Attention. You Never Had To Share Anything. No One Ever Ate Your Food. No One Ever Took Your Toys. But The Unintended Consequence Was That I Didn't Appreciate That Being Universally Loved Was Not Only Not Required For Happiness, But Also Not Possible.

My Hope When I Wrote The First Book Was That I Would Get To Do It Again. But It Was Not Entirely Clear That That Would Happen.

I Would Be Good For Maybe Not The Center Square But An Upper Square On 'hollywood Squares.'

Writing For Me Always Requires Trickery. Tricking Myself Into Sitting Down, Letting Words Tumble Out Until You Find The Good Ones. It's Sort Of A Trance. And When A Piece Is Done, I Have Little Memory Of How I Wrote It, And Zero Confidence I'd Ever Be Able To Do It Again.