You Do Not Hate The Time You

It Wasn't That I Had Gotten It Right . . . But That I Had Gotten True.

I Don't Think There's A Difference Between Writing For A Newspaper Or Magazine And Doing A Chapter In A Book.

This Is A Place Where Grandmothers Hold Babies On Their Laps Under The Stars And Whisper In Their Ears That The Lights In The Sky Are Holes In The Floor Of Heaven.

I Began Reading Harper Lee's Novel In The Skimpy Shade Of A Pine Outside My Grandmother's House, Fat Beagles Pressing Against Me, Begging For Attention, Ignored. At Dark, I Kept Reading, First On The Couch, A Bologna Sandwich In One Hand, Then In My Bed, By The Light Of A 60-watt Bulb Hanging From The Ceiling On An Orange Drop Cord. When My Mother Came In From Her Job As A Maid And Unplugged My Chandelier, I Replayed The Story In My Head Until It Was Crowded Out By Dreams. I Woke The Next Morning, Smelling Biscuits, And Reached For The Book Again.

I Have Dictated Stories From An Airport After Writing The Story Out In Longhand On The Plane That I Got From Phone Interviews And Then Was Applauded By Editors For 'working Magic.