There Are So Many Ways To Go

I Don't Really Know Where My Ideas Come From. I Start With A Time And A Place. That's What I Need To Get Started, And An Intellectual Question.

The Sky Was Electric Blue Above The Trees But The Yard Felt Dark. Stephanie Went To The Edge Of The Lawn And Sat Her Forehead On Her Knees. The Grass And Soil Were Still Warm From The Day. She Wanted To Cry But She Couldn't. The Feeling Was Too Deep.

I Write Fiction Longhand. That's Not So Much About Rejecting Technology As Being Unable To Write Fiction On A Computer For Some Reason. I Don't Think I Would Write It On A Typewriter Either. I Write In A Very Blind Gut Instinctive Way. It Just Doesn't Feel Right. There's A Physical Connection. And Then In Nonfiction That's Not The Case At All. I Can't Even Imagine Writing Nonfiction By Hand.

But I Always Need To Identify With A Character To Write About Him Or Her - And By "identify," I Mean See The World Through That Person's Eyes And Have A Strong Sense Of The Inner Logic Of Their Acts And Decisions, Wacky Or Wrongheaded Though They Might Be. In That Sense, I Think There's Some Of Me In All Of Them.

I Think, The World Is Actually Huge. That's The Part No One Can Really Explain.