Old As She Was, She

Why Do I Write? The Truth, The Unvarnished Truth, Is That I Haven't A Clue.

Six Months Of Looking For A Job Had Made Me An Expert At Picking Out The People Who, Like Me, Were Hurrying Up To Wait - In Somebody's Outer Anything For A Chance To Make It Through Their Inner Doors To Prove That You Could Type Two Words A Minute, Or Not Drool On Your Blouse While Answering Difficult Questions About Your Middle Initial And Date Of Birth.

Spoiled. That's All It's About - Can't Live Without This, Can't Live Without That. You Can Live Without Anything You Weren't Born With, And You Can Make It Through On Even Half Of That.

Writers Are Voracious Readers. Once I Unlocked The Mystery Of The Alphabet That Led To Words, A Multitude Of Words Connecting Me To The World, There Was No Stopping Me. Everything Was Fair Game, From Louisa May Alcott To My Older Cousin's True Romance Magazines, From Lewis Carroll To The Backs Of Cereal Boxes. All Of This Fed Me, But It Took Certain Books To Make Me Grow. I Don't Want To Work Without A Sense Of Drama, Without Passion, Or Without Both Eyes Open To The World Around Me.

The Right Woman Is The One You Can Live With, Not The One In Your Head.