It Is A Special Kind

Somehow I Wasn't Adding Up Right Anymore. My Parts Weren't Summing Into Myself.

I'm Probably A Lot Closer Than Perhaps The Contents Of My Early Fiction Suggest To A Jaded Denny's Waitress With Smoker's-lung-black Humor Than A Ghost Hunter.

Sometimes, When You're Writing Sentence By Sentence, You're Not Really Sure What Footprints You're Going To Fall Into, Or What Ghosts Might Appear.

Any Place, Then, Can Become A Cemetery. All It Takes Is Your Body. It's Not Fair, I Think, And I Get This Petulant Wish For Ugly Flowers And Mourners, My Mother's Old Familiar Grief. Somebody I Love To Tend My Future Grave. Probably This Is The Wrong Thing To Be Wishing For.

I Have Friends Who Are Capable Of Writing A Very Rough Draft And Then Going Back And Embroidering - They're Sort Of The Cathedral Builders Of Fiction. I Never Really Know What I'm Doing, And All My Pleasure's On The Level Of The Line. It's A Weird Way To Move Forward. It's Kind Of Like A Way To Caterpillar Your Way Through These Great Woods. The Best Ones, Whatever I Feel Like I'm Writing About, Some Other Secret Thing Will Begin To Come Into Focus.