I write like I live, of course, without action or plot: pretty and vapid and weak. I write
the beautiful things into life, the flowers and waters and trees, but they are static, in
paralysis. My life is a setting, still, populated with vivid colors and delicate shapes.
The seasons revolve and I chronicle the bright white winters and the aggressively
blue summer skies, the reluctant thaw of the spring and the astonishing gold of October,
but it is only a setting, like pictures on the wall. There are no characters to bring this
world to life, no arcs of climax and dénouement: it is a silent sketch, a meticulous
landscape, waiting for a catalyst.