“Mysterious My paper shinesWhite, like snow, but the paper looks empty.I could decorate itwith tiny spidersor stars or sketches of melooking at a blank page,but the clock ticks,and somehow I must write.I like the sight of untouched snow.Gentle, slow, silent,it drifts and swirls, layers itself, and I seea new world of mysterious,inviting shapes. I walk in its whitewhispers, susurrus.I driftback to this paper that feelshard on the disk, and I beginto listen-to the story I tell myself.The paper is a white, patient place,my private spacefor remembering,saving: spring sun on my faceventing and inventing,arguing with my mother,wondering: who am I,wandering through cobwebs of old dreams,crying, sighing at people who don't see me, hoping to write music so bluelisteners forget to breathe,playing the sounds, jamming with myself,changing....into the me I can't quite see.”

“Before, when I looked at a piece of blank paper my mind was filled with ideas. Now all I see is a blank piece of paper”

“I love the book. I love the feel of a book in my hands, the compactness of it, the shape, the size. I love the feel of paper. The sound it makes when I turn a page. I love the beauty of print on paper, the patterns, the shapes, the fonts. I am astonished by the versatility and practicality of The Book. It is so simple. It is so fit for its purpose. It may give me mere content, but no e-reader will ever give me that sort of added pleasure.”

“It had a crisp paper jacket, unlike the paper-covered library books I was used to, and the way the pages parted, I could tell I was the first to open it ... I valued that half-dream state of being lost in a book so much that I limited the number of pages I let myself read each day in order to put off the inevitable end, my banishment from that world. I still do this. ”

“I could write stories; I could hide from the world and make my own instead of trying to change it or live in it. I could make paper people and I would love them too; I could make them almost real.”

“How strange and abandoned and unsettled I am. Like a snowdome paper weight that's been shaken. There's a blizzard in my bubble. Everything in my world that was steady and sure and sturdy has been shaken out of place, and it's now drifting and swirling back down in a confetti of debris. (p30)”