This Person Realizes That Staying Home Means

It Occurred To Me That Everyone’s Story Matters To Themselves, So The More I Listened, The More She Wanted To Talk.

Some People Are Uncomfortable With Silences. Not Me. I’ve Never Cared Much For Call And Response. Sometimes I Will Think Of Something To Say And Then I Ask Myself: Is It Worth It? And It Just Isn’t.

When I Write, I Wear Earplugs. I Don't Want To Be Self-conscious. I Don't Want To Be Thinking About The Fact That I'm Thinking About It. I Just Want To Be In It. It's One Element Of Hypnosis.

… It Wasn’t Pretend, I Wasn’t In A Fairytale Or A Fable. I Shut My Eyes And Absorbed The Silent Whoomp That Always Accompanies This Revelation. It’s The Sound Of The Real World, Gigantic And Impossible, Replacing The Smaller Version Of Reality That I Wear Like A Bonnet, Clutched Tightly Under My Chin.

I Was A Lot Dumber When I Was Writing The Novel. I Felt Like Worse Of A Writer Because I Wrote Many Of The Short Stories In One Sitting Or Over Maybe Three Days, And They Didn't Change That Much. There Weren't Many, Many Drafts. That Made Me Feel Semi-brilliant And Part Of A Magical Process. Writing The Novel Wasn't Like That. I Would Come Home Every Day From My Office And Say, "well, I Still Really Like The Story, I Just Wish It Was Better Written." At That Point, I Didn't Realize I Was Writing A First Draft. And The First Draft Was The Hardest Part.