You remind me of everything that followed.

A writer has to true to him or herself. Period. That’s it!

The sky was different, without color, taut and unforgiving. But the water was the most unforgiving thing, nearly black at times, cold enough, I knew, to kill me, violent enough to break me apart. The waves were immense, battering rocky beaches without sand. The farther I went, the more desolate it became, more than any place I'd been, but for this very reason the landscape drew me, claimed me as nothing had in a long time.

I dream of writing a book like LOVERS some day. It is so spare but so rich. It is history made intimate, and a masterpiece of compression.

Isolation offered its own form of companionship

Somehow, bad news, however ridden with static, however filled with echoes, always manages to be conveyed.

I approach writing stories as a recorder. I think of my role as some kind of reporting device - recording and projecting.