I Read Pretty Voraciously. If It's Good,

I Told Him The Truth, That I Loved Him And Didn't Regret Anything About Our Lives Together. But Do We Ever 'tell The Truth, The Whole Truth, And Nothing But The Truth, So Help Me God' As My Father Used To Say, To Those We Love? Or Even To Ourselves? Don't Even The Best And Most Fortunate Of Lives Hint At Other Possibilities, At A Different Kind Of Sweetness And, Yes, Bitterness Too? Isn't This Why We Can't Help Feeling Cheated, Even When We Know We Haven't Been?

When Authors Who Write Literary Fiction Begin To Write Screenplays, Everybody Assumes That's The End. Here's Another Who's Never Going To Write Well Again.

Why Mince Words? Beautiful Ruins Is An Absolute Masterpiece.

I Suppose All Writers Worry About The Well Running Dry.

A Short Story Is Something That I Think Can Be Intuited And Envisioned And Held In Your Mind Almost At Once.