I Was No Longer, If

Any Compulsion Tries To Justify Itself.

I Start A Book And I Want To Make It Perfect, Want It To Turn Every Color, Want It To Be The World. Ten Pages In, I've Already Blown It, Limited It, Made It Less, Marred It. That's Very Discouraging. I Hate The Book At That Point. After A While I Arrive At An Accommodation: Well, It's Not The Ideal, It's Not The Perfect Object I Wanted To Make, But Maybe—if I Go Ahead And Finish It Anyway—i Can Get It Right Next Time. Maybe I Can Have Another Chance.

What You're Normally Doing As A Writer Is Trying To Find The Narrative.

Water Is Important To People Who Do Not Have It, And The Same Is True Of Control.

I Don't Know What I Think Until I Write It Down.