When I Was A Child, Writing Was

I Can Weep Pretty Easily. I Can Get Tears In My Eyes From A Beautiful Work Of Art.

The First Book I Could Call Mine, My First Book, Was A Picture Book, The Magic Monkey - It Was Adapted From An Old Chinese Legend By A Thirteen-year-old Prodigy Named Plato Chan With The Help Of His Sister.

Some Part Of Me Knew He Would Show Up, That If I Stood In One Place Long Enough He Would Find Me, Like You're Taught To Do When You're Lost. But They Never Taught Us What To Do If Both Of You Are Lost, And You Both End Up In The Same Place, Waiting.

When I Was A Child, Writing Was The Worst Possible Choice Of A Career In My Family.

In My Experience, Whatever Happens Clings To Us Like Barnacles On The Hull Of A Ship, Slowing Us Slightly, Both Uglifying And Giving Us Texture. You Can Scrape All You Want, You Can, If You Have Money, Hire Someone Else To Scrape, But The Barnacles Will Come Back Or At Least Leave A Blemish On The Steel.