I do think that something of the effect I have on people is to put everything on an edge where they’re both infatuated with a kind of charmingness happening in the person or in the writing, and also flatly terrified by a revelation or acceptance of revelation that’s almost happening, never quite totally happening.
A lot of parents today are terrified that something they say to their children might make them ‘feel bad.’ But, hey, if they’ve done something wrong, they should feel bad. Kids with a sense of responsibility, not entitlement, who know when to experience gratitude and humility, will be better at navigating the social shoals of college.
I write for those women who do not speak, for those who do not have a voice because they were so terrified, because we are taught to respect fear more than ourselves. We’ve been taught that silence would save us, but it won’t.
I’m terrified of switching the computer on because there are so many poems.
People into hard sciences, neurophysiology, often ignore a core philosophical question: ‘What is the relationship between our unique, inner experience of conscious awareness and material substance?’ The answer is: We don’t know, and some people are so terrified to say, ‘I don’t know.’
One night, I lay awake for hours, just terrified. When the dawn finally came up – the comfortable blue sky, the familiar world returning – I could think of no other way to express my relief than through poetry. I made a decision there and then that it was what I wanted to do. Every time I pulled a wishbone, it was what I asked for.