An Author's Life Is Different, Complex, And

She Was Not Good On The Phone. She Needed The Face, The Pattern Of Eyes, Nose, Trembling Mouth... People Talking Were Meant To Look At A Face, The Disastrous Cupcake Of It, The Hide-and-seek Of The Heart Dashing Across. With A Phone, You Said Words, But You Never Watched Them Go In. You Saw Them Off At The Airport But Never Knew Whether There Was Anyone There To Greet Them When They Got Off The Plane.

But That Inadequacy, Or Feeling Of Inadequacy, Never Really Goes Away. You Just Have To Trudge Ahead In The Rain, Regardless.

An Agony. The Exit Like The Entrance - But Reserved. A Palindrome: Gut-tug.

Begin To Wonder What You Do Write About. Or If You Have Anything To Say. Or Even If There Is Such A Thing As A Thing To Say. Limit These Thoughts To No More Than Ten Minutes A Day; Like Sit-ups, They Can Make You Thin

Editing Is Just Ongoing. I Don't Count Drafts, Or Know What Would Fully Constitute A Draft. But I Try To Fix As I Go. And There's Always More To Fix.