She Is Stunned That In This Town

Each Day She Removes A Small Portion Of The Unwanted Things In People's Lives, Though All Of It, She Thinks, Was Previously Wanted, Once Useful. She Feels The Sun Scorching The Back Of Her Neck. The Heat Is At Its Worst Now, The Rains Still A Few Months Away. The Task Satisfies Her. It Passes The Time.

A Writer Has To True To Him Or Herself. Period. That’s It!

In New York I Was Always So Scared Of Saying That I Wrote Fiction. It Just Seemed Like, 'who Am I To Dare To Do That Thing Here? The Epicenter Of Publishing And Writers?' I Found All That Very Intimidating And Avoided Writing As A Response.

In Fiction, Plenty Do The Job Of Conveying Information, Rousing Suspense, Painting Characters, Enabling Them To Speak. But Only Certain Sentences Breathe And Shift About, Like Live Matter In Soil.

The Knowledge Of Death Seemed Present In Both Sisters-it Was Something About The Way They Carried Themselves, Something That Had Broken Too Son And Had Not Mended, Marking Them In Spite Of Their Lightheartedness.