You're...writing for other writers to an extent-the dead writers whose work you admire, as well as the living writers you like to read.

The places where water comes together with other water. Those places stand out in my mind like holy places.

My life is going to change. I feel it.

She won't give him back his look.

My circumstances of unrelieved responsibility and permanent distraction necessitated the short story form.

Then I said something. I said, Suppose, just suppose, nothing had ever happened. Suppose this was for the first time. Just suppose. It doesn't hurt to suppose. Say none of the other had ever happened. You know what I mean? Then what? I said.

But I can hardly sit still. I keep fidgeting, crossing one leg and then the other. I feel like I could throw off sparks, or break a window--maybe rearrange all the furniture.