The House Is A Factory.

People Say I Talk Slowly. I Talk In A Way Sometimes Called Laconic. The Phone Rings, I Answer, And People Ask If They've Woken Me Up. I Lose My Way In The Middle Of Sentences, Leaving People Hanging For Minutes. I Have No Control Over It. I'll Be Talking, And Will Be Interested In What I'm Saying, But Then Someone-i'm Convinced This What Happens-someone-and I Wish I Knew Who, Because I Would Have Words For This Person-for A Short Time, Borrows My Head. Like A Battery Is Borrowed From A Calculator To Power A Remote Control, Someone, Always, Is Borrowing My Head.

Also, I Need Deadlines, Just Like Everybody Else, Especially Coming From Magazines, Newspapers, And Stuff Like That. I Need Daily Or Weekly Deadlines To Get Stuff Done, Or I Continue To Do Things And Not Go Off On A Year Of Unproductivity.

She Felt Some Measure Of Relief Knowing That In The Very Least, On The Open Road She Would Have Some Time To Think.

Every Time I Get Through The Work On A Book Of Nonfiction, I Say I'll Never Do It Again; It Takes So Much Out Of You.

I Went To Public School All My Life And All Through College And I Liked It.