Who Will Ever Kiss This Encyclopedia Of

For The Entire Decade Of My 30s And The Early Part Of My 40s, I Didn't Write A Word Of Fiction. I Just Left Behind A Dream Of My Life.

Both The Five-year-olds Looked At Me With Bewilderment And A Bit Of Fearful Uncertainty. I Had A Sudden Horrifying Image Of The Woman I Might Become If I'm Not Careful: Crazy Aunt Liz. The Divorcee In The Muumuu With The Dyed Orange Hair Who Doesn't Eat Dairy But Smokes Menthols, Who's Always Just Coming Back From Her Astrology Cruise Or Breaking Up With Her Aroma-therapist Boyfriend, Who Reads The Tarot Cards Of Kindergarteners And Says Things Like, "bring Aunty Liz Another Wine Cooler, Baby, And I'll Let You Wear My Mood Ring.

There's No Trouble In This World So Serious That It Can't Be Cured With A Hot Bath, A Glass Of Whiskey, And The Book Of Common Prayer.

The Thing I Love About Dickens Is The Omniscient, Omnipotent Narrator, And The Great Confidence Of The Narrator, Which Marks 19th-century Novelists In General And Dickens In Particular.

I Feel Like If I Were To Get Another Tattoo, It Would Probably Be Those Two Words. Just Stubborn, Stubborn, Stubborn Gladness.