Anybody in television lives under grinding deadlines.
i'm alternatingly brilliant and witless-and sleepless: bed is just a swamp to roll in.
Did you love well what very soon you left? Come home and take me in your arms and take away this stomach ache, headache, heartache. Never so full, I never was bereft so utterly. The winter evenings drift dark to the window. Not one work will make you, where you are, turn in your day, or wake from your night toward me. The only gift I got to keep or give is what I've cried, floodgates let down to mourning for the dead chances, for the end of being young, for everyone I loved who really died. I drank our one year out in brine instead of honey from the seasons of your tongue.
There is a way in which all writing is connected. In a second language, for example, a workshop can liberate the students' use of the vocabulary they're acquiring.
There is something very satisfactory about being in the middle of something.
I have experienced healing through other writers' poetry, but there's no way I can sit down to write in the hope a poem will have healing potential. If I do, I'll write a bad poem.
With, or despite our scars, we stay alive.
I believe the day is done. Whether it's been the best day or the worst, it's over; let it go.
As soon as a woman begins to dress "loud," her manners and conversation partake of the same element.
I do not remember any proper children's books in my childhood. I was not exposed to them.
In our world of rampant individualisation, relationships are mixed blessings. They vacillate between a sweet dream and a nightmare, and there is no telling when one turns into the other.