Sometimes I don’t have a sense. Other times I’ll have a vague idea of what the story will be, but I can’t find a way into it. Then I’ll get an image that sometimes doesn’t seem to have anything to do with the story but for some reason it’s my way into it, but then I have to feel my way around and kind of—I make little notes in the margin of what I want to happen, or what I want to talk about next. -Mary Gaitskill
Sometimes the writer craves a single sheet of paper with many folds and lines, empty
of bright white light and blinking cursor. Sometimes the writer moves into the middle
of blank space with the tip of a pen, wrist rubbing a place on the page, warm dark shadow.
Sometimes the computer will not do, when paper has such appeal and pen drips shine and thick.