Maybe That, Really, Is As Good A

When You Are The Woman Upstairs, Nobody Thinks Of You First. Nobody Calls You Before Anyone Else, Or Sends You The First Postcard. Once Your Mother Dies, Nobody Loves You “best Of All.” It's A Small Thing, You Might Think, And Maybe It Depends On Your Temperament, Maybe For Some People It's A Small Thing, But For Me [...]

Does Being Happy Simply Create More Time, In The Way That Being Sad, As We All Know, Slows Time And Thickens It, Like Cornstarch In A Sauce?).

If I Had To Summarize, Most Broadly, My Concerns As A Writer, I'd Say The Question 'how Then Must We Live?' Is At The Heart Of It, For Me.

I Think There's No Question That There's A Reason Why Small Children Make Great Art And Why Slightly Bigger Children Don't. And It's Because Small Children Don't Worry About What Anybody Else Thinks And Slightly Bigger Children Start To Worry About These Things.

I Wanted To Write A Voice That For Me, As A Reader, Had Been Missing From The Chorus: The Voice Of An Angry Woman.