One Had To Build Shelters. One Had

Plots Are For Dead People.

Perhaps She Drives Men Away. Perhaps, Without Even Being Able To Help Herself, She Just Puts Men Into Her Ill-tempered Car And Drives Them Off: To Quarries, Dumps, Small Anonymous Bodies Of Water.

An Author's Life Is Different, Complex, And Ongoing, While A Character's Remains Frozen In One Little Story.

To Write A Short Story, You Have To Be Able To Stay Up All Night.

They Had, Finally, The Only Thing Anyone Really Wants In Life: Someone To Hold Your Hand When You Die.