At Some Point As Adults

The Rest-the Vast Majority, Tens Of Thousands Of Days-are Unremarkable, Repetitive, Even Monotonous. We Glide Through Them Then Instantly Forget Them. We Tend Not To Think About This Arithmetic When We Look Back On Our Lives. We Remember The Handful Of Big Days And Throw Away The Rest. We Organize Our Long, Shapeless Lives Into Tidy Little Stories...but Our Lives Are Mostly Made Up Of Junk, Of Ordinary, Forgettable Days, And 'the End' Is Never The End.

I Can't Say That I Ever Actually Decided To Become A Writer. It Kind Of Snuck Up On Me.

The Act Does Not Create Guilt Unless The Mind Is Also Guilty.

When I Was 30 Or So - By That Time I Had Become An Assistant D.a. - I Decided I Would Try To Write A Novel. To Be Clear: I Did Not Decide To Become A Novelist. Honestly, It Never Crossed My Mind That I Could Actually Earn A Living As A Professional Novelist.

Predisposition Is Not Predestination.