"The key is to allow, never force, because divine guidance, at first, is fragile—a translucent veil, a distant echo—such that the moment one reaches and grabs, it is no longer. But I've learned a trick. I simply start writing...."
The year she stopped eating and working and talking, she devolved, draping cloth over mirrors, not brushing her teeth. She went from Emily Dickinson to Sylvia Plath to Anne Sexton, reading their work over and over, copying their words. A day came. She reached for a pencil... cracked egg, hot griddle. Her first poem filled two pages. She now eats oatmeal and wanton soup from the Chinese restaurant.