It Kills Your Writing If You Try

Add There Was That Moment When My Mother And Father Walked In The Door Disguised As Old People. I Thought The Miles In The Car Had Bent Them, Dulled Their Eyes, Even Grayed And Whitened Their Hair And Caused Their Hands And Voices To Tremble. At The Same Time, I Found, As I Rose Form The Chair, I'd Gotten Old Along With Them.

He Had A Thousand-year-old Stare.

Women Are Strong, Strong, Terribly Strong. We Don't Know How Strong Until We Are Pushing Out Our Babies. We Are Too Often Treated Like Babies Having Babies When We Should Be In Training, Like Acolytes, Novices To High Priestesshood, Like Serious Applicants For The Space Program.

I Have Always Kept Notebooks And I Go Back To Them Over And Over. They Are My Compost Pile Of Ideas.

Cold Sinks In, There To Stay. And People, They'll Leave You, Sure. There's No Return To What Was And No Way Back. There's Just Emptiness All Around, And You In It, Like Singing Up From The Bottom Of A Well, Like Nothing Else, Until You Harm Yourself, Until You Are A Mad Dog Biting Yourself For Sympathy. Because There Is No Relenting.