Fiction Is The Only Way I Know

And Wasn't It Terrible, How Much He Looked Forward To Those Moments, So Much So That Sometimes Even A Ride By Himself On The Subway Was The Best Part Of The Day? Wasn't It Terrible That After All The Work One Put Into Finding A Person To Spend One's Life With, After Making A Family With That Person, Even In Spite Of Missing That Person...that Solitude Was What One Relished The Most, The Only Thing That, Even In Fleeting, Diminished Doses, Kept One Sane?

That The Last Two Letters In Her Name Were The First Two In His, A Silly Thing He Never Mentioned To Her But Caused Him To Believe That They Were Bound Together.

I've Seen Novels That Have Grown Out Of One Story In A Collection. But It Hasn't Occurred To Me To Take Any Of Those Stories And Build On Them. They Seem Very Finished For Me, So I Don't Feel Like Going Back And Dredging Them Up.

She Learned That An Act Intended To Express Love Could Have Nothing To Do With It. That Her Heart And Her Body Were Different Things.

Being A Writer Means Taking The Leap From Listening To Saying 'listen To Me'.