Stories Are A Different Kind Of True.

Writing Is Nearly Always A Matter Of Finding Whatever Your Brain Needs To Trick It Into Being Creative, And In My Case, A Tiny Little Bit Of Fact Just Seems To Work.

I Thought One Way To Try To Hold On To The Power Was To Write The Script Myself. That Way, I Could Say To Filmmakers, "i'm Not Asking You To Hire Me Unseen. I'm Just Saying, 'here's My Script. Can We Work Together?'" So That Worked Out Well.

Once I Spent A Whole Day There, A Blade Of Grass In Each Hand To Anchor Me To The Warm Earth. I Watched The Sun Rise, Pass Over My Head And Set. Ladybirds Mated On My Knuckle; A Shrew Nibbled A Hole In My Stocking While I Tried Not To Laugh. Such A Day Was Worth Any Punishment.

I Always Wince A Little Bit When I Send Me To Each Of My New Books. I Wince At Submitting Myself To My Father's Judgment. But, Of Course, He's Such A Fond Father That He Always Writes Back, Saying It's The Greatest Thing Ever Written.

My Mother Was Wonderfully Out About Her Dementia. She Would Sort Of - She Would Say To Me, I Came Out To The Window Cleaner About Having Dementia. You Know, I Love The Way That Verb For Coming Out Of The Closet Has Now Become So Socially Useful For All Sorts Of Situations, Like When You Need To Explain To The Window Cleaner That You Don't Know If You Paid Him Or Not.