There Wasn't A Lot Of Bullshit In

But She Was Waiting Patiently. She No Longer Believed In Talk. It Never Rescued Anything. At Seventy She Had Come To Believe In Time Alone. ~pg 254

It's Something That I Know How To Do Because I Taught For A Very Long Time, So I Can Do It, And I Feel A Responsibility To Do It - For Instance, In This Situation, Where I'm Touring Specifically For This Period Of Time. But Most Writers Are Not Public People. There Are A Few Writers Out There Who Really Enjoy It And Are Good At It, And Can Both Work And Do That At The Same Time, But I'm Not One Of Those People.

It Was Buckley, As My Father And Sister Joined The Group And Listened To Grandma Lynn’s Countless Toasts, Who Saw Me. He Saw Me Standing Under The Rustic Colonial Clock And Stared. He Was Drinking Champagne. There Were Strings Coming Out From All Around Me, Reaching Out, Waving In The Air. Someone Passed Him A Brownie. He Held It In His Hand But Did Not Eat. He Saw My Shape And Face, Which Had Not Changed-the Hair Still Parted Down The Middle, The Chest Still Flat And Hips Undeveloped-and Wanted To Call Out My Name. It Was Only A Moment, And Then I Was Gone.

I Loved The Way The Burned-out Flashcubes Of The Kodak Instamatic Marked A Moment That Had Passed, One That Would Now Be Gone Forever Except For A Picture.

I Think That If You're Somebody Who's A Control Freak, The Process Would Make You Crazy, But I'm Kind Of A Process Freak, So I'm Excited To See What He Does With It. I Know It's Not Going To Be My Book, So Just Starting With That Knowledge Frees Me From Having To Get All Freaked Out About It.