It Was At This Time That She

I Would ... Go Up To The Mailbox And Sit In The Grass, Waiting. ... Till It Came To Me One Day There Were Women Doing This With Their Lives, All Over. There Were Women Just Waiting And Waiting By Mailboxes For One Letter Or Another. I Imagined Me Making This Journey Day After Day And Year After Year, And My Hair Starting To Go Gray, And I Thought, I Was Never Made To Go On Like That. ... If There Were Woman All Through Life Waiting, And Women Busy And Not Waiting, I Knew Which I Had To Be.

Usually, I Have A Lot Of Acquaintance With The Story Before I Start Writing It. When I Didn't Have Regular Time To Give To Writing, Stories Would Just Be Working In My Head For So Long That When I Started To Write I Was Deep Into Them. Now, I Do That Work By Filling Notebooks.

I Want My Stories To Move People ... To Feel Some Kind Of Reward From The Writing.

Because If She Let Go Of Her Grief Even For A Minute It Would Only Hit Her Harder When She Bumped Into It Again.

I Saw How The Forms Of Love Might Be Maintained With A Condemned Person But With The Love In Fact Measured And Disciplined, Because You Have To Survive. It Could Be Done So Discreetly That The Object Of Such Care Would Not Suspect, Any More Than She Would Suspect The Sentence Of Death Itself.