In The Sea Of Words,

The Computer Is The Way I'm Making Books, But I Still Think About The Physical Properties. I Visualize The Length Of A Book, The Proportions Of A Book, In Material Terms.

Being Blocked, Being Uncertain, Sitting There Not Knowing, Waiting, Abiding With It: This Is The Work. If You Don't Have The Tolerance For That You're In Great Trouble. If You Want To Call It A Writer's Block... That Doesn't Seem A Very Useful Name For That Kind Of Abiding That I Think Is The Essence Of The Work.

How Often Had That Hydrant Even Been Opened? Did You Jet Water Through A Car Window, What, Twice At Best? Summer Burned Just A Few Afternoons Long, In The End. As For Flying, Dose Never Even Glanced At The Sky. Flying Was A Summer Within A Summer, A Whim. So Why Think Of It At All?

...don't Rupture Another's Illusion Unless You're Positive The Alternative You Offer Is More Worthwhile Than That From Which You're Wrenching Them. Interrogate Your Solipsism: Does It Offer Any Better A Home Than The Delusions You're Reaching To Shatter?

Listen To Me. I’m Shy. I’m Not Stupid. I Can’t Meet People’s Eyes. I Don’t Know If You Understand What That’s Like. There’s A Whole World Going On Around Me, I’m Aware Of That. It’s Not Because I Don’t Want To Look At You, Lucinda. It’s That I Don’t Want To Be Seen.