I Had Never Taken Creative Writing Classes.

The Sixties Were Different In An Isolated Place. We Got Two Television Channels If The Wind Was Blowing In The Right Direction. The Radio Stations Went Off At Sundown. Then You Picked Up Chicago And Heard The Teenage Music You Really Yearned For.

Claim Your Space. Draw A Circle Of Light Around It. Push Back Against The Dark. Don't Just Survive. Celebrate.

Well, I'm A Slow Writer. For Me, A Good Day Is A Page, Maybe A Page And A Half. I'd Love To Be More Efficient, But I Am Not.

And Then She Thought That You Went On Living One Day After Another, And In Time You Were Somebody Else, Your Previous Self Only Like A Close Relative, A Sister Or Brother, With Whom You Shared A Past. But A Different Person, A Separate Life. Certainly Neither She Nor Inman Were The People They Had Been The Last Time They Were Together. And She Believed Maybe She Liked Them Both Better Now.

She Always Carried A Book, Though, In Case She Needed To Read A Few Pages To Avoid Unwanted Conversation.