[Stuff that was removed from book chapters.]
from Carrington Rd:
I guess I can only be sure that a memory’s real if I can’t remember someone telling me about it. But even that’s not reliable. A girl I was half-seeing, Elizabeth, early or mid 30s maybe, she told me the story of how we first hooked up. Hers was just like mine, except one major part. We were both leaving, closing time I guess, chatting flirtatiously, when the bouncer said, “so you gonna ask for her number?”. In Elizabeth’s version, she’d said that to me (she’s often more shy than she remembers).
I knew my memory was the right one, as I’ve often thought it was interesting that the deep friendship we ended up forming only really happened because of a bouncer. But I don’t mind that our stories are different. Living in our slightly separate timelines has obviously made us both pretty happy, or at least had a significant enough impact on us to bare remembering that way.
from Driving Back:
Granny tells me, if a woman is clever enough, she can make sure that things work out the way she knows they should.
from Granny’s Gifts:
Through support from people I trust, I have accepted that, actually, I’m rather good at it. But it’s not really something I’ve learnt. It just flows out of me: I simply write, and something happens. Likewise, you just happen. Just as a wave retreating from a beach leaves it covered in tiny, infinite, sun-glistened diamonds, so too do you leave our presence in the world. You can’t see it, but it’s there, its known, and it’s appreciated.
chiefly, an appreciation for myself; an internal self acceptance; and most importantly, a sense of belonging