When You're In A Place,

I Think The Mythology Of Death Really Ran Away With Me When I Was Very Young.

No Matter How Grave The Secret, How Imperative Absolute Silence, Someone Would Always Feel The Urge To Confess, And An Unleashed Secret Is A Terrible Force.

When I Was Eight Years Old, I Wrote A Paragraph-long Short Story About A Goat On My Mother's Hundred-pound, Black-and-white-screen Laptop. The Story Came About Largely Because I Liked The Way The Word 'goat' Looked On The Page, But I Decided Then And There That I Wanted To Be A Writer. That Desire Never Changed.

When I Hit A Block, Regardless Of What I Am Writing, What The Subject Matter Is, Or What's Going On In The Plot, I Go Back And I Read Pablo Neruda's Poetry. I Don't Actually Speak Spanish, So I Read It Translation. But I Always Go Back To Neruda. I Don't Know Why, But It Calms Me, Calms My Brain.

The Dead Are Celebrated. The Dead Are Loved. They Give Something To The Living. Once You Put Something Into The Ground, Doctor, You Always Know Where To Find It.