A bird can only fly its best when both wings are in good shape.
It wasn’t a matter of finding my voice, but listening to it. It had been there all along.
“I now see fiction—my own and that of others—as work paused but never finished.”
I saw writing was not a remote magic but something one created—built.
“I now accept that I am forever doomed to learning from my mistakes, whether in crafting a sentence, creating a book, or living out my life. That’s the writer’s burden.”
“My new professor, with his reading list of Central and Eastern European literature, had handed me a vast map with so much good territory to explore.”
“If I could write a eulogy for him, convey his value in a single page of prose, then how could I justify wasting 80,000 words on invented characters whom I felt nothing for?”
“It feels reassuring to write everything you remember, how it all felt. But to write well sometimes involves rejecting reassurance.”
“Was I replacing one language with another, one way of communicating with another?”
“To risk something real as a writer is to risk making a fool of oneself.”