There Are Few Times That I Feel

No, I Don’t Live In Heartache. I Don’t Cry Myself To Sleep Or Any Of That. I Am, I Tell Myself, Over It. But I Do Feel A Void, Icky As That Sounds. And—like It Or Not—i Still Think About Her Every Single Day.

Sometimes The Loudest Cries For Help Are Silent.

What I Want To Do Is Tell Stories About Normal People In The American Suburbs. I Don't Write The Book Where It's A Conspiracy Reaching The Prime Minister; I Don't Write The Book With The Big Serial Killer Who Lops Off Heads. My Setting Is A Very Placid Pool Of Suburbia, Family Life. And Within That I Can Make Pretty Big Splashes.

We All Think That We Are Uniquely Complex, That No One Can See What We Are Thinking - Yet We Also Believe That We Have The Rare Ability To Read Others. This Fascinates Me At The Moment.

I Remember One Time I Heard This English Professor Asking The Class What The World's Scariest Noise Is. Is It A Man Crying Out In Pain? A Woman's Scream Of Terror? A Gunshot? A Baby Crying? And The Professor Shakes His Head And Says, 'no, The Scariest Noise Is, You're All Alone In Your Dark House, You Know You're All Alone, You Know That There Is No Chance Anyone Else Is Home Or Within Miles—and Then, Suddenly, From Upstairs, You Hear The Toilet Flush.