She Was Like A Butterfly, Full Of

I Do Believe That Our Modern English Usage Has Become Way Too Clipped And Austere. I Have Been Reading Excerpts From The Journals Of 18th-century Seafarers Lately, And Even The Lowliest Press-ganged Deck-swabber Turns A Finer Phrase Than I Do Most Days.

All The Times, All The Very Many Times, I Had Been Forced To Thwart And Stifle My Own Nature Seemed To Gather Together Then, In That Hot And Dismal Corridor. I Heard A Rushing Sound In My Head And Felt A Pressure In My Breast, Like Floodwaters Rising Behind A Flimsy Dike. Before I Knew I Did It, The Soup Bowl Was Rising In My Hand As If Elevated By Some Supernatural Force. Then, Its Yellow-gray Contents Were Running Down The Nurse's Pudgy Face.

The Day In 2004 When The Radiologist Told Me I Had Invasive Cancer, I Walked Down The Hospital Corridor Looking For A Phone To Call My Husband, And I Could Almost See The Fear Coming Toward Me Like A Big, Black Shadow.

Because I Worked As A Newspaper Reporter For About 14 Years Before Attempting My First Novel, I Learned To Write Under Almost Any Circumstances- By Candle Light, In Longhand, In African Villages Where There Was No Power, Under Shelling In Kurdistan.

Certainly I'm Still Mining My Experiences As A Journalist. I Think It's No Coincidence That All Three Of My Novels Basically Are About How People Act In A Time Of Catastrophe. Do They Go To Their Best Self Or Their Worst Self?