For A Split Second I Felt As

I Suppose The Daily Disciplines Are Just A Reflection Of The Qualities Of My Inner World - A Mixture Of Paralysis And Terror And A Lighter, Freer, Kind Of Rebellious Woman. So Those Are Just Constantly Pushing Against Each Other, And That's Played Out In Every Area Of My Life.

Writing A Novel Was Like I Had Some Play-doh To Work With And Could Just Keep Working With It - Doing A Million Drafts And Things Changing Radically And Characters Appearing And Disappearing And Solving Mysteries: Why Is This Thing Here? Should I Just Take That Away? And Then Realizing, No, That Is There, In Fact, Because That Is The Key To This. I Love That Sort Of Detective Work, Keeping The Faith Alive Until All The Questions Have Been Sleuthed Out.

They Wordlessly Excused Each Other For Not Loving Each Other As Much As They Had Planned To. There Were Empty Rooms In The House Where They Had Meant To Put Their Love, And They Worked Together To Fill These Rooms With Midcentury Modern Furniture. ("birthmark").

I Asked Myself If I Would Kill My Parents To Save His Life, A Question I Had Been Posing Since I Was Fifteen. The Answer Always Used To Be Yes. But In Time, All Those Boys Had Faded Away, And My Parents Were Still There. I Was Now Less And Less Willing To Kill Them For Anyone; In Fact, I Worried For Their Health. In This Case, However, I Had To Say Yes. Yes, I Would.

Was She Terrifyingly Beautiful? Was She So Ignorant She Didn't Deserve The Truth? Was She Also A Liar And Thus It Was Something They Did Together? I Don't Believe In Psychology; Which Says Everything You Do Is Because Of Yourself. That Is So Untrue. We Are Social Animals, And Everything We Do Is Because Of Other People, Because We Love Them, Or Because We Don't.