Life is not orderly. No matter how we try to make life so, right in the middle of it we die, lose a leg, fall in love, drop a jar of applesauce. In summer, we work hard to make a tidy garden, bordered by pansies with rows or clumps of columbine, petunias, bleeding hearts. Then we find ourselves longing for the forest, where everything has the appearance of disorder; yet we feel peaceful there.
I think book publishing is fun, but I also know I've been very lucky.
You don't know what you're doing. You're just hoping that people won't make fun of you. I had no idea how it would turn out.
