That is the mystery about writing: it comes out of afflictions, out of the gouged times, when the heart is cut open.
Life, after all, was a secret with the self. The more one gave out, the less there remained for the center--that center which she coveted for herself and recognized instantly in others. Fruits had it, the very heart of, say, a cherry, where the true worth and flavor lay. Some of course were flawed or hollow in there. Many, in fact.
After that dark woman you search for someone who will fit into the irregular corners of your heart.
Writers, however mature and wise and eminent, are children at heart.
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