Plots Are For Dead People.

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

I Do Have People In Mind When I Write. I Don't Know Precisely Who They Are, However, Or How Many Of Them There Are.

No Matter That You Anticipate A Thing; You Get So Used To It As Part Of The Future That Its Actuality, Its Arrival, Its Force And Presence, Startles You, Takes You By Surprise, As Would A Ghost Suddenly Appearing In The Room Wearing Familiar Perfume And Boots.

Writing Is Both The Excursion Into And The Excursion Out Of One's Life. That Is The Queasy Paradox Of The Artistic Life. It Is The Thing That, Like Love, Removes One Both Painfully And Deliciously From The Ordinary Shape Of Existence. It Joins Another Queasy Paradox: That Life Is An Amazing, Hilarious, Blessed Gift And That It Is Also Intolerable.

I Would Never Understand Photography, The Sneaky, Murderous Taxidermy Of It.