30 July 1996
After the magazine shift I came home with newsprint on my fingers and one usable sentence in my head: character is pressure. Not background, not charm, not a sad childhood pasted behind the eyes. Pressure.
Ruth does not become interesting because I have given her a dead father and a good coat. She becomes interesting when the rent is due, the letter is missing, the person who knows the truth is waiting downstairs, and she still decides to check her lipstick before answering the door.
The magazine is useful for this, though I resent admitting it. Offices are pressure chambers with fluorescent lighting. People reveal themselves not in declarations but in the small strategies by which they avoid humiliation: jokes, speed, helpfulness, contempt, a sudden devotion to the photocopier.
Caroline continues to succeed in public, which is inconsiderate but not unusable. Envy is ugly fuel. I would prefer a nobler substance. The page does not care. It burns what is given.
Tonight I cut three pages of explanation and replaced them with one bad decision. The story is better. So am I, while I am doing it.