You forgot to cough!” he said. “Sorry.” She coughed. “Your sneakiness is dangerous. Next time that chisel will lodge itself in my head.” “Now, Peder, there’s plenty of stone around here for carving. No need to practice on your own face.” He stroked his chin. “You’re right, my jaw is already chiseled to perfection.” She agreed, but she felt too silly to say so aloud.

The rewrites are a struggle right now. Sometimes I wish writing a book could just be easy for me at last. But when I think about it practically, I am glad it's a struggle. I am (as usual) attempting to write a book that's too hard for me. I'm telling a story I'm not smart enough to tell. The risk of failure is huge. But I prefer it this way. I'm forced to learn, forced to smarten myself up, forced to wrestle. And if it works, then I'll have written something that is better than I am.

Really, becoming a writer sounds more like a mental illness than a professional choice.

Go on, son, you're not doing me any good by bleeding.

Ah, now, don't cry over lost years and forgetfulness. The tales tell what they can. The rest is for us to learn.

No more crying. It's all wetness and no comfort at all.

Figure out what is real for you. No use leaning on someone else's story all your life.