I Come From The Small Island Of

I Would Pretend When I Was A Child That I Was Charlotte Brontë, Because I'd Read Jane Eyre When I Was Ten And, Although I Didn't Understand It, I Loved The Idea That This Woman Had Written A Book. I Wanted To Be Her.

I Swim In A Shaft Of Light, Upside Down, And I Can See Myself Clearly, Through And Through, From Every Angle. Perhaps I Stand On The Brink Of A Great Discovery.

That The World I Was In Could Be Soft, Lovely, And Nourishing Was More Than I Could Bear, And So I Stood There And Wept, For I Didn't Want To Love One More Thing In My Life, Didn't Want One More Thing That Could Make My Heart Break Into A Million Little Pieces At My Feet.

Tomorrow Exists Even Though I May Not Exist In It.

If You Just Sit There, And You're A Writer, You're Bound To Write Crap. A Lot Of American Writing Is Crap. And A Lot Of American Writers Are Professionals.