People Grow Up By Living.

I Mean, If I Went Into My Closet, I Could Find A Previous Draft And Try To Figure That Out, But It Takes A Long Time For Me To Find The Voice To Tell A Story In. I Was Working From Other Points Of View For A Couple Years There.

I Wake Up Very Early In The Morning. I Like To Start In The Dark, And I Never Work At Night, Because My Brain Is Evaporated By 4 P.m.

Inside The Snow Globe On My Father's Desk, There Was A Penguin Wearing A Red-and-white-striped Scarf. When I Was Little My Father Would Pull Me Into His Lap And Reach For The Snow Globe. He Would Turn It Over, Letting All The Snow Collect On The Top, Then Quickly Invert It. The Two Of Us Watched The Snow Fall Gently Around The Penguin. The Penguin Was Alone In There, I Thought, And I Worried For Him. When I Told My Father This, He Said, "don't Worry, Susie; He Has A Nice Life. He's Trapped In A Perfect World.

He Tunneled Into Stories Where Weak Men Changed Into Strong Half-animals Or Used Eye Beams Or Magic Hammers To Power Through Steel Or Climb Up The Sides Of Skyscrapers. He Was The Hulk When Angry And Spidey The Rest Of The Time. When He Felt His Heart Hurt He Turned Into Something Stronger Than A Little Boy, And He Grew Up This Way. A Heart That Flashed From Heart To Stone, Heart To Stone. As I Watched I Thought Of What Grandma Lynn Liked To Say When Lindsey And I Rolled Our Eyes Or Grimaced Behind Her Back. "watch Out What Faces You Make. You'll Freeze That Way.

Well, It's My Voice, So It's More Accessible That Way, And There Are Also All Sorts Of Things Like Plot And Timelines That Are Already Known Entities, So For Me, It's Very Different From Writing Fiction.