Meeting writers is always so disappointing. I got over wanting to meet live writers quite a long time ago. There is this terrific book that has changed your life, and then you meet the author, and he has shifty eyes and funny shoes and he won’t talk about anything except the injustice of the United States income tax structure toward people with fluctuating income, or how to breed Black Angus cows, or something.

It feels like someone is gripping my heart and twisting it. It feels like I can’t breathe. I shut my eyes tightly against the memory that is threatening to surface. I can’t breathe.
Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe!

Writing is talking, except you get the chance to edit what you just said

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