Writing Is A Job: You Must Show

What Strange Places Our Lives Can Carry Us To, What Dark Passages.

Sara Waited A Respectful Time, Knowing There Was Nothing She Could Do To Ease The Woman's Pain. Grief Was A Place, Sara Understood, Where A Person Went Alone. It Was Like A Room Without Doors, And What Happened In That Room, All The Anger And The Pain You Felt, Was Meant To Stay There, Nobody's Business But Yours.

There Was Something In The Pages Of These Books That Had The Power To Make Him Feel Better About Things, A Life Raft To Cling To Before The Dark Currents Of Memory Washed Him Downstream Again, And On Brighter Days, He Could Even See Himself Going On This Way For Some Time. A Small But Passable Life. And Then, Of Course, The End Of The World Happened.

My Inventing Time Is All Done Under The Influence Of Aerobic Exercise. Basically, I Do All My Thinking While I Run.

I'm Still An English Professor At Rice University Here In Houston. They've Been Very Generous In Letting Me On A Very Long Leash To Just Work On 'the Passage' And Its Sequels.