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?

It ought to make us feel ashamed when we talk like we know what we're talking about when we talk about love.

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

A man without hands came to the door to sell me a photograph of my house. Except for the chrome hooks, he was an ordinary-looking man of fifty or so.

It's akin to style, what I'm talking about, but it isn't style alone. It is the writer's particular and unmistakable signature on everything he writes. It is his world and no other. This is one of the things that distinguishes one writer from another. Not talent. There's plenty of that around. But a writer who has some special way of looking at things and who gives artistic expression to that way of looking: that writer may be around for a time.

I guess my writing has changed as my life has.