I Believe In The Goodness Of Imagination.

The Most Significant Gifts Are The Ones Most Easily Overlooked. Small, Everyday Blessings: Woods, Health, Music, Laughter, Memories, Books, Family, Friends, Second Chances, Warm Fireplaces, And All The Footprints Scattered Throughout Our Days.

Finally, I Began To Write About Becoming An Older Woman And The Trepidation It Stirred. The Small, Telling "betrayals" Of My Body. The Stalled, Eerie Stillness In My Writing, Accompanied By An Ache For Some Unlived Destiny. I Wrote About The Raw, Unsettled Feelings Coursing Through Me, The Need To Divest And Relocate, The Urge To Radically Simplify And Distill Life Into A New, Unknown Meaning.

I Never Know How To Give Advice To A Writer Because There's So Much You Could Say, And It's Hard To Translate Your Own Experience. But Of Course, I Always Try. The Main Thing That I Usually End Up Saying Is To Read A Lot. To Read A Great Deal And To Learn From That.

Still Everyone, Including The Abbot, Had Said That He Was Running Away From His Grief. They'd Had No Idea What They Were Talking About. He'd Cradled His Grief, Almost To The Point Of Loving It. For So Long He Refused To Give It Up, Because Leaving It Behind Was Like Leaving Her.

I Said, "if I Was A Negro Girl-" He Placed His Fingers Across My Lips So I Tasted His Saltiness. "we Can't Think Of Changing Our Skin," He Said. "change The World-that's How We Gotta Think."