. . . He Felt Himself Entering

You Cannot Find Peace By Avoiding Life, Leonard.

A Certain Bohemian, Good-witch Sort Of Charm

The Vestibule Door Opens Onto A June Morning So Fine And Scrubbed Classira Pauses At The Threshold As She Would At The Edge Of A Pool, Watching The Turquoise Water Lapping At The Tiles, The Liquid Nets Of Sun Wavering In The Blue Depths. As If Standing At The Edge Of A Pool She Delays For A Moment The Plunge, The Quick Membrane Of Chill, The Plain Shock Of Immersion.

Like My Hero Virginia Woolf, I Do Lack Confidence. I Always Find That The Novel I'm Finishing, Even If It's Turned Out Fairly Well, Is Not The Novel I Had In My Mind. I Think A Lot Of Writers Must Negotiate This, And If They Don't Admit It, They're Not Being Honest.

You Could Say I Don't Want For Me Be Seen Primarily As A Gay Writer. I've Never Hidden My Sexuality. It Matters That I'm Gay, It Matters That I'm White, It Matters That I'm Male, It Matters That I'm American. But Basically It's Just Less And Less Of A Big Deal.