Writers Seem To Me To

I'm Full Of Restlessness. Not Lonely, Exactly - My Head Is Racing With Ideas. But It Is That Old Treacherous Feeling That Real Life Is Happening Somewhere Else, And I'm Left Out.

It's A Terrific Privilege To Be Able To See Into Somebody Else's Life.

I Suppose There Must Be Idiots Who Dream Of Signing Deals With Publishers While Fully Intending To Drink Martinis In Cool Bars Or Ride Around On Skateboards. But The Actual Writers I Know Are Experts In Neurotic Self-torture. Every Page Of Writing Is The Result Of A Thousand Tiny Decisions And Desperate Acts Of Will.

It's Disturbing At My Age To Look At A Young Woman's Destructive Behaviour And Hear The Echoes Of It, Of One's Own Destructiveness In Youth.

I Think Writers Are Very Anxious.