Anger Is Its Own Excuse And Its

Somebody Said Writing Is Easy, You Just Sit Down At Your Typewriter And Open A Vein. It Depends On The Book. Some, I Have To Do Quite A Lot Of Research, Which I Like. Others Are Much Closer To Me.

I Think Every Creative Impulse That A Working Writer, Or Artist Of Any Sort Has, Comes Out Of That Dark Old Country Where Dreams Come From.

I Don't Think You Ever Think Of A Big City As Sweet Or Community, But There Are Cities That I Think Of As Charming And Particular And Interesting Cities. I Live In One Now, Charleston.

Walter Loves The Sea, And I Need It In Some Elemental Way That I Cannot Even Come Close To Verbalizing. I Become Dim And Shriveled Somehow At My Very Core If I Am Away From The Sea Too Long. When I Return To It I Seem To Fill Up And Overflow With It, Soaking In The Vast, Sighing Wetness Of It Like A Parched Vine In A Long, Soft Spring Rain.

I Have A Theory That Southern Madhouses Are Full Of Gifted Women Who Were Stifled.