I Just Write The Books That I

She Nodded, Jotting Something In Her Notebook. You’re Writing That Down? Has The Interview Started?” Lee, Whenever You’re Talking To A Reporter, You’re Being Interviewed.

We All Stood And Gathered Our Backpacks And I Looked At The Floor Around My Chair To Make Sure I Hadn’t Dropped Anything. I Was Terrified Of Unwittingly Leaving Behind A Scrap Of Paper On Which Were Written All My Private Desires And Humiliations. The Fact That No Such Scrap Of Paper Existed, That I Did Not Even Keep A Diary Or Write Letters Except Bland, Earnest, Falsely Cheerful Ones To My Family (we Lost To St. Francis In Soccer, But I Think We’ll Win Our Game This Saturday; We Are Working On Self-portraits In Art Class, And The Hardest Part For Me Is The Nose) Never Decreased My Fear.

I Feel Like People Who Criticize Authors For Being Self-promotional Fail To Recognize That A Lot Of Times Their Ability To Continue Writing Hinges On Sales And Recognition. Some Of It Is For Fun, Some Of It Is For Ego, But A Lot Of It Is Just Writers Trying To Ensure Longevity To Their Career.

She Really Does Like Him, She Likes Lying Next To Him, She Wants To Be Around Him; When You Get Down To It, Can You Say That About Many People?

I Guess In Life I Find People Who, At First Glance, Appear To Be Very Typical Or Average, Whatever That Means, And Then Turn Out To Have Hidden Qualities.