You work hard on a book and throw it out there and then it's beyond your control.
Even when I look straight into the milky blue eyes I can't find myself any more. When did I stop being me?
I tend not to think about the reading public at all, or the business, when I'm writing.
I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page.
It's as though I've been sleepwalking and suddenly woken to find myself here
Then I lie down on the horse blanket and drift into a dream about Marlena that will probably cost me my soul.