The fiction Im most interested in has lines of reference to the real world.

Write about what you know, and what do you know better than your own secrets?

There is no answer. It's okay. But even if it wasn't okay, what am I supposed to do?

And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.

Woke up this morning with a terrific urge to lie in bed all day and read.

That's all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones.

Remember Haydn's 104 symphonies. Not all of them were great. But there were 104 of them.