What Keeps Me Interested--and It Always Does--is

I Think We've All Lost Some Kind Of Feeling.

She Sits Before Me, Sullen But Hopeful, Characterless, About To Dissolve Into Tears. I Squeeze Her Hand Back, Moved, No, Touched By Her Ignorance Of Evil. She Has One More Test To Pass. Do You Own A Briefcase?” I Ask Her, Swallowing.

I'm On The Verge Of Tears By The Time We Arrive At Pastels Since I'm Positive We Won't Get Seated But The Table Is Good, And Relief That Is Almost Tidal In Scope Washes Over Me In An Awesome Wave.

I'm Not A Big Believer In Disciplined Writers. What Does Discipline Mean? The Writer Who Forces Himself To Sit Down And Write For Seven Hours Every Day Might Be Wasting Those Seven Hours If He's Not In The Mood And Doesn't Feel The Juice. I Don't Think Discipline Equals Creativity.

Why Would I Care What Other People Are Thinking? I Don't Care What An Audience Thinks Of Me.