I Don't Write For An Audience, I

It Was Too Much Work To Remember Things You Might Not Have Again, And So One By One They Opened Up Their Hands And Let Them Go.

From My Table Inside I Watch The Glamorous Women Outside Who Are Lunching On Spa Cobb Salads Without Blue Cheese Or Dressing. The Man With The Bread Basket Wanders From Table To Table, Lonesome As A Cloud. When He Comes To Me His Basket Is Full And Perfectly Arranged. He Gives Me A Smile Of Sincere Pleasure When I Tell Him I Will Take Both The Sourdough Roll And The Cheese Stick.

I Was Starting To Wonder If I Was Ready To Be A Writer, Not Someone Who Won Prizes, Got Published And Was Given The Time And Space To Work, But Someone Who Wrote As A Course Of Life. Maybe Writing Wouldn't Have Any Rewards. Maybe The Salvation I Would Gain Through Work Would Only Be Emotional And Intellectual. Wouldn't That Be Enough, To Be A Waitress Who Found An Hour Or Two Hidden In Every Day To Write?

You Can't Be A Jerk In Order To Be A Good Writer.

To Say It Was A Beautiful Day Would Not Begin To Explain It. It Was That Day When The End Of Summer Intersects Perfectly With The Start Of Fall .... [p.218 Ff.]