When You Find Yourself Alone, Or In

I Think You Know Everything At Eight. But Is Is Hidden From You, Sealed Up, In A Way You Have To Cut Yourself Open To Find.

Cats, I Always Think, Only Jump Into Your Lap To Check If You Are Cold Enough, Yet, To Eat.

Belief Needs Something Terrible To Make It Work, I Find--blood, Nails, A Bit Of Anguish.

You Write A Book And You Finish The Book. That's Your Job Done, Right? You Win The Booker And You Have A Whole New Job. You Have To Be The Thing, Right? So Instead Of Writing The Story, You Somehow Are The Story. And That I Found That Sort Of Terrible.

Write Whatever Way You Like. Fiction Is Made Of Words On A Page; Reality Is Made Of Something Else. It Doesn't Matter How "real" Your Story Is, Or How "made Up": What Matters Is Its Necessity.