I Guess In My Own Life, Privacy,

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.

A Sense Of That Kind Of Narrative Movement That We Experience Online Could Have Been In My Mind Easily, Though Not Consciously. I Do Rely So Much On My Unconscious, The Way I Write My Stuff The Way I Do. I Let My Unconscious Work. I Have Better Ideas That Way And More Interesting Work.

The Problem Was Precision, Perfection; The Problem Was Digitization, Which Sucked The Life Out Of Everything That Got Smeared Through Its Microscopic Mesh.

Read At The Level At Which You Want To Write. Reading Is The Nourishment That Feeds The Kind Of Writing You Want To Do.

What I Suddenly Understand My Job Is To Make People Uncomfortable. + I Will Do It All My Life. ---> My Mother, Sasha Blake, Is My First Victim.