It Make One's Mouth Hurt To Speak

As I Searched The Atlas For Somewhere To Run To, Hugh Made A Case For His Old Stomping Grounds. His First Suggestion Was Beirut, Where He Went To Nursery School. His Family Left There In The Midsixties And Moved To The Congo. After That, It Was Ethiopia, And Then Somalia, All Fine Places In His Opinion. 'let's Save Africa And The Middle East For When I Decide To Quit Living,' I Said.

At The Morgue, People Were So Desensitized That They Would Eat Lunch In The Glass Walled Room Adjacent To The Autopsy Room. A Viewing Room. Because It Had The Best Air Conditioning In The Building. So They Would Eat In There And Maybe Somebody Would Come In Who Had Been Found After Being Dead For Three Days And They Would Say: That Is The Exact Purple I Want For Those Drapes In The Study. They Didn't Miss A Beat. They Could Eat Through Anything.

I Don't Worry About Being Exposed. When I'm Writing About Myself I Think About Myself As A Character. There Is A Ton Of Stuff Going On In My Life That I Don't Write About. If I Need To Write That Stuff Down, I Write About Myself In My Diary.

The Walking Tour Guides One Through The City's Various Landmarks, Reciting Bits Of Information The Listener Might Find Enlightening. I Learned, For Example, That In The Late 1500s My Little Neighborhood Square Was A Popular Spot For Burning People Alive. Now Lined With A Row Of Small Shops, The Tradition Continues, Though In A Figurative Rather Than Literal Sense.

It Can Take Years. With The First Draft, I Just Write Everything. With The Second Draft, It Becomes So Depressing For Me, Because I Realize That I Was Fooled Into Thinking I'd Written The Story. I Hadn't-i Had Just Typed For A Long Time. So Then I Have To Carve Out A Story From The 25 Or So Pages. It's In There Somewhere-but I Have To Find It. I'll Then Write A Third, Fourth, And Fifth Draft, And So On.