Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.

I drink sherry and wine by myself because I like it and I get the sensuous feeling of indulgence...luxury, bliss, erotic-tinged.

I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off

Every day one has to earn the name of 'writer' over again, with much wrestling.

See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.

At this rate, I'd be lucky if I wrote a page a day. Then I knew what the problem was. I needed experience. How could I write about life when I'd never had a love affair or a baby or even seen anybody die? A girl I knew had just won a prize for a short story about her adventures among the pygmies in Africa. How could I compete with that sort of thing?

The reason I haven't been writing in this book for so long is partly that I haven't had one decent coherent thought to put down.