Once Upon A Time There

I Try To Make A Point Of Being Seen. Sometimes When I'm Out, I'll Buy A Juice Even When I'm Not Thirsty. If The Store Is Crowded I'll Even Go So Far As Dropping Change All Over The Floor, Nickels And Dimes Skidding In Every Direction. All I Want Is Not To Die On A Day I Went Unseen.

For Me, What I Am Making In The Novel Is A Place To Live. When I First Switched From Poetry To Novels, I Was Asked Why, And The Metaphor I Came Up With Was About Poems As Rooms. You Can Make A Room Perfect, But Then You Have To Shut The Door And Never Go Back, Whereas A Novel Is Like A House - It Can Never Be Perfect, But You Can Make A Life In It.

When You're Younger, It's All Theoretical. It's All Potential. As You Get Older, It Becomes Actual, And Your Life Gets Filled With Unexpected Complexity; Some Of It Asked For, And Some Of It Not. It Becomes Richer, I Find.

No, What I Felt Was The Torment Of Waiting, Stuck Between The End Of One Sentence And The Beginning Of The Next Which Might Or Might Not Bring A Hail Storm, Plane Crash, Poetic Justice, Or A Miraculous Reversal.

Don’t You See?” I Said. “he Could Change Every Detail, But He Couldn’t Change Her.” “but Why?” His Obtuseness Frustrated Me. “because He Was In Love With Her!” I Said. “because, To Him, She Was The Only Thing That Was Real.