I Loved To Read When I Was

Oh, Myr," He Chokes Out. "i Hate Having To Ask This Of You..." He Glances Towards The Car Again, And I Crouch Down In The Shadows, Hoping It's Too Dark For Him To See Whether The Window Is Open Or Closed. The Woman Pats His Arm, Cradling Her Hand Against His Elbow. "you Know I'd Do Anything For You And Hil," She Says. I Like Her Voice. It's Throaty And Rich. "you'd Do Anything?" My Father Repeats Numbly. "even Now? After -?" "even Now," The Woman Says Firmly.

A Ssure You, The More I Travel Through Time, The More I Witness, The More I Realize That There Are Things That Are Both Strange And Wonderful, Far Beyond Human Comprehension.

The Deadlines Are Much, Much Longer With Books. When I Was A Reporter, A Lot Of Times I'd Come In At 8:30 A.m., Get An Assignment Right Away, Interview Somebody, Turn The Story In By 9:30, And Have The Finished Story In The Paper That Landed On My Desk By Noon.

A Thousand Times Today I've Started To Open My Mouth, Started To Squeak Out, "can You Tell Me...? But Then I'd Look Into The Front Seat, At My Mother's Silent Shaking, My Father's Grim Profile, The Mournful Bags Under His Eyes, And All The Questions I Might Ask Seemed Abusive. Assault And Battery, A Question Mark Used Like A Club. My Parents Are Old And Fragile. I'd Have To Heartless To Want To Hurt Them.

When Writing Isn't Going Well-then The Bad Thing About Being A Writer Is That I Also Have The Freedom And Flexibility To Do Something Badly, And No One Else Can Fix It For Me.