She Is Not A Writer

I Don't Know If I Can Face This. You Know. The Party And The Ceremony, And Then The Hour After That, And The Hour After That." "you Don't Have To Go To The Party. You Don't Have To Go To The Ceremony. You Don't Have To Do Anything At All." "but There Are Still The Hours, Aren't There? One And Then Another, And You Get Through That One And Then, My God, There's Another. I'm So Sick.

I Revise Constantly, As I Go Along And Then Again After I've Finished A First Draft. Few Of My Novels Contain A Single Sentence That Closely Resembles The Sentence I First Set Down. I Just Find That I Have To Keep Zapping And Zapping The English Language Until It Starts To Behave In Some Way That Vaguely Matches My Intentions.

But There Are Still The Hours, Aren't There? One And Then Another, And You Get Through That One And Then, My God, There's Another.

People Are More Than You Think They Are. And They're Less, As Well. The Trick Lies In Negotiating Your Way Between The Two.

At The Risk, Then, Of Being Shunned By Some Of My Gloomier Peers, I Venture To Tell You That Writers Work Like Demons, Suffer Greatly, And Are Also Happy, In Unmistakable Ways, Some Of The Time. If We Had No Knowledge Of Happiness, Our Novels Wouldn't Sufficiently Resemble Real Life. Some Of Us Are Even Made A Little Bit Happy, On Occasion, By The Writing Process Itself. I Mean, Really, If There Wasn't Some Sort Of Enjoyment To Be Derived, Would Any Of Us Keep Doing It?