It Doesn't Ever Occur To

We Read To Find Life, In All Its Possibilities.

I've Discovered Over The Years That The Simplest Explanation Is Almost Always The Right One; And That Hunger Of One Kind Or Another - Desire, By Another Name - Is The Source Of Almost Every Sorrow.

I Always Thought I'd Get Farther. I'd Like To Blame The World For What I've Failed To Do, But The Failure - The Failure That Sometimes Washes Over Me As Anger, Makes Me So Angry I Could Spit - Is All Mine, In The End. What Made My Obstacles Insurmountable, What Consigned Me To Mediocrity, Is Me, Just Me. I Thought For So Long, Forever, That I Was Strong Enough -- Or I Misunderstood What Strength Was.

I Wanted To Write A Voice That For Me, As A Reader, Had Been Missing From The Chorus: The Voice Of An Angry Woman.

An Abiding Preoccupation For Me Is How Much Of Our Lives Are Invisible And Unknown By Other People Like The Chekhov Story The Lady With The Little Dog.