Stories Are A Different Kind Of True.

At The Door, There Was One Of Those Moment When Two People Realize That They Like Each Other More Than They Know Each Other. This Is Nicer Than The Opposite Situation, But More Awkward. You Try To Remember The Protocol For Touching. You Hate To Gush, Or Presume To Much, Yet You Are Unwilling To Let The Moment Pass Without Without Some Gesture

Change For Your Own Sake, If You Must, Not For What You Imagine Another Will Ask Of You.

I Say "on Principle" [regarding 'lesbian Writer'] Because Whenever You Get One Of Your Minority Labels Applied, Like "irish Writer," "canadian Writer," "woman Writer," "lesbian Writer" - Any Of Those Categories - You Always Slightly Wince Because You're Afraid That People Will Think That Means You're Only Going To Write About Canada Or Ireland, You Know.

We're Standing On The Deck That's All Wooden Like The Deck Of A Ship. There's Fuzz On It, Little Bundles. Grandma Says It's Some Kind Of Pollen From A Tree. "which One?" I'm Staring Up At All The Differents. "can't Help You There, I'm Afraid." In Room We Knowed What Everything Was Called But In The World There's So Much, Persons Don't Even Know The Names.

Writers Should Be Applauded For Their Ability To Make Things Up.