I’m busily working on revisions for Under the Poppy like a cross between a silkworm and a burrowing owl, using editorial notes as my head lamp (hello, Kelly!) and instinct for my engine.  This is a limbic stage . . . One of the things I enjoy about getting together with other writers, as I did too briefly at Seton Hill, is asking them about their process, how do you make the trip from A to A prime, then to Z,  do you like to revise or hate it, what puts rocket fuel in your tank? It’s universally individual, and endlessly interesting, this process of making, and if it isn’t, why in the world would you do it?  The great Annie Dillard tells this story:

A well-known writer got collared by a university student who asked, ”Do you think I could be a writer?”

”Well,” the writer said, ”I don’t know. . . . Do you like sentences?”

The writer could see the student’s amazement. Sentences? Do I like sentences? I am 20 years old and do I like sentences? If he had liked sentences, of course, he could begin, like a joyful painter I knew. I asked him how he came to be a painter. He said, ”I liked the smell of the paint.”