I could place a scene from two days ago right beside one from twenty years earlier, and ask the reader to ponder the relationship between the two.
What have I set myself to fix in this dirty notebook that is not mine? Does the revelation that, though it cannot be done with words, it might be accomplished in some lingual gap, give me right, in injury, walking with a woman and her dog, to pain? Rather the long doubts: That this labor tears up the mind’s moorings; that, though life may be important int he scheme, awareness is an imperfect tool with which to face it. To reflect is to fight away the sheets of silver, the carbonated distractions, the feeling that, somehow, a thumb is pressed on the right eye. This exhaustion melts what binds, releases what flows.
"Write about the stuff you are scared / ashamed of writing about. That's where all the good stuff is. Ask: what can writing teach me about myself?"