It Can't Be Dead. It Was Alive

I Entered A Poem In A Poetry Contest Around 1987, And The Poem Won And I Received $1,000 For It. That Made Me Realize That Maybe What I Was Writing Was Worth Reading To People. After That, For Some Reason, I Turned To Novels And I've Written Mainly Novels Ever Since.

I Was Wishing I Was Invisible. Outside, The Leaves Were Falling To The Ground, And I Was Infinitely Sad, Sad Down To My Bones. I Was Sad For Phoebe And Her Parents And Prudence And Mike, Sad For The Leaves That Were Dying, And Sad For Myself, For Something I Had Lost.

Man Needs Bread And Hyacinths: One To Feed The Body, And One To Feed The Soul.

And What Did I Think When I Was Small And Why Did I Forget? And What Else Will I Forget When I Grow Older? And If You Forget Is It As If It Never Happened? Will None Of The Things You Saw Or Thought Or Dreamed Matter?

Being A Mother Is Like Trying To Hold A Wolf By The Ears,” Gram Said. “if You Have Three Or Four –or More – Chickabiddies, You’re Dancing On A Hot Griddle All The Time. You Don’t Have Time To Think About Anything Else. And If You’ve Only Got One Or Two, It’s Almost Harder. You Have Room Left Over – Empty Spaces That You Think You’ve Got To Fill Up.