Every novel is-at the beginning-the same opening of a door onto a completely unknown space.
The future of narrative? Built in, part of the human template. Not going away.
There's always something to occupy the inquiring mind.
Our generation in the west was lucky: we had readymade gateways. We had books, paper, teachers, schools and libraries. But many in the world lack these luxuries. How do you practice without such tryout venues?
Gardening is not a rational act.
Some days I do appreciate things more, eggs, flowers, but then I decide I'm only having an attack of sentimentality, my brain going pastel Technicolor, like a beautiful-sunset greeting cards they used to make so many of in California. High-gloss hearts. The danger is grayout.