There's A Fine Line Between Thinking About

One Area I Have A Huge Amount Of Trouble In Is Writing About Myself. I Get A Heavy, Almost Depressed Feeling.

Happened As I Listened: I Felt Pain. Not In My Head, Not In My Arm, Not In My Leg; Everywhere At Once. I Told Myself There Was No Difference Between Being “inside” And Being “outside,” That It All Came Down To X’s And O’s That Could Be Acquired In Any Number Of Different Ways, But The Pain Increased To A Point Where I Thought I Might Collapse, And I Limped Away.

I Write My First Draft By Hand, At Least For Fiction. For Non-fiction, I Write Happily On A Computer, But For Fiction I Write By Hand, Because I'm Trying To Achieve A Kind Of Thoughtless State, Or An Unconscious Instinctive State. I'm Not Reading What I Write When I Wrote. It's An Unconscious Outpouring That's A Mess, And It's Many, Many Steps Away From Anything Anyone Would Want To Read. Creating That Way Seems To Generate The Most Interesting Material For Me To Work With, Though.

And For An Instant He Would Remember Naples: Sitting With Sasha In Her Tiny Room; The Jolt Of Surprise And Delight He'd Felt When The Sun Finally Dropped Into The Center Of Her Window And Was Captured Inside Her Circle Of Wire. Now He Turned To Her, Grinning. Her Hair And Face Were Aflame With Orange Light. "see," Sasha Muttered, Eyeing The Sun. "it's Mine.

Technology Makes Everyone Feel Old. A Laptop Is Old After Two Years. Someone Always Has Something Newer. Everyone Seems To Feel Obsolete Now, Even The Young.