It was devastating. That’s really the only word. I was looking for another one. It was devastating on a number of levels, but mostly because I had to confront the fact that I had hurt this person so much that they would say that to me. That was the devastating thing. The rewriting was … once again, I’m not sure if “therapeutic” is the word, but it did feel something like a penance.

First of all, you can correct mistakes much more easily. One sweep of the palette-knife 'lifts' the blood and tears of a morning from the canvas and enables a fresh start to be made; indeed the canvas is all the better for past impressions.

The concept typically comes first. Those are the lightbulb moments, the most muse-y ones. For my first book, it was the idea of this uneasy trio involved in dream research, a romantic couple and their professor. For my second book, I knew that four siblings would visit a fortune teller, who tells them their dates of death (or so she claims), and that the book would then follow the siblings over the course of their lives. And for this new book, there were two threads—one was a fascinating (real!) science experiment that was producing results with eerie implications. And the second thread was my desire to explore the universe of marriage, or partnership.

I’m still working on it, especially with poems, The only way I’ve found to do any sort of editing is to rewrite or retype the whole thing. It’s a trick my friend Bud Smith taught me. The Bud Smith secret. All his secrets are just basically, you gotta do the thing. And that really worked for fiction. That’s how I redrafted my novel. Because it’s more than a room. It’s a giant city of rooms. With a poem, I think what’s fun in the revision process is just going through, cutting out a line, cutting out four lines, and seeing what happens.