My diary seems to keep me whole.
We sit on the kitchen exchanging these diabolical outgrowths of overfertile minds.
To lie, of course, is to engender insanity.
When I don't write, I feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in a prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing.
The final lesson a writer learns is that everything can nourish the writer.
Our culture made a virtue of living only as extroverts. We discouraged the inner journey, the quest for a center. So we lost our center and have to find it again.