When I Sit Down To Write, I

On A Sticky August Evening Two Weeks Before Her Due Date, Ashima Ganguli Stands In The Kitchen Of A Central Square Apartment, Combining Rice Krispies And Planters Peanuts And Chopped Red Onion In Bowl.

The First Sentence Of A Book Is A Handshake, Perhaps An Embrace. Style And Personality Are Irrelevant. They Can Be Formal Or Casual. They Can Be Tall Or Short Or Fat Or Thin. They Can Obey The Rules Or Break Them. But They Need To Contain A Charge. A Live Current, Which Shocks And Illuminates.

He Owned An Expensive Camera That Required Thought Before You Pressed The Shutter, And I Quickly Became His Favorite Subject, Round-faced, Missing Teeth, My Thick Bangs In Need Of A Trim. They Are Still The Pictures Of Myself I Like Best, For They Convey That Confidence Of Youth I No Longer Possess, Especially In Front Of A Camera.

Isolation Offered Its Own Form Of Companionship: The Reliable Silence Of Her Rooms, The Steadfast Tranquility Of The Evenings. The Promise That She Would Find Things Where She Put Them, That There Would Be No Interruption, No Surprise. It Greeted Her At The End Of Each Day And Lay Still With Her At Night.

If I Stop To Think About Fans, Or Best-selling, Or Not Best-selling, Or Good Reviews, Or Not-good Reviews, It Just Becomes Too Much. It's Like Staring At The Mirror All Day.