What Do You Do When

The Kiss Was Innocent--innocent Enough--but It Was Also Full Of Something Not Unlike What Virginia Wants From London, From Life; It Was Full Of A Love Complex And Ravenous, Ancient, Neither This Nor That. It Will Serve As This Afternoon's Manifestation Of The Central Mystery Itself, The Elusive Brightness That Shines From The Edges Of Certain Dreams; The Brightness Which, When We Awaken, Is Already Fading From Our Minds, And Which We Rise In The Hope Of Finding, Perhaps Today, This New Day In Which Anything Might Happen, Anything At All.

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?

I Remember One Morning Getting Up At Dawn, There Was Such A Sense Of Possibility. You Know, That Feeling? And I Remember Thinking To Myself: So, This Is The Beginning Of Happiness. This Is Where It Starts. And Of Course There Will Always Be More. It Never Occurred To Me It Wasn't The Beginning. It Was Happiness. It Was The Moment. Right Then.

I Know, Speaking For Myself, No Matter What I'm Able To Do, No Matter What Book Comes Out And Ends Up On Paper, I Always Had Something Bigger And Grander In My Head.

Yes," She Answers And Does Not Move. She Might, At This Moment, Be Nothing But A Floating Intelligence; Not Even A Brain Inside A Skull, Just A Presence That Perceives, As A Ghoast Might. Yes, She Thinks, This Is Probably How It Must Feel To Be A Ghost. It's A Little Like Reading, Isn't It-that Same Sensation Of Knowing People, Settings, Situations, Without Playing Any Particular Part Beyond That Of The Willing Observer.