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

Being the Novelist-in-Residence at a riad hotel in the kasbah of an Arabic North African city is a lot like trying to write one’s memoirs on shreds of napkins in a nuthouse.

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