It's difficult to watch her last interviews with Paar and Cavet, to hear her talk in that boozy slurr, to see the drug-dulled gleam of her once bright eyes, to watch her staccato movements, like responses to fingernails scratching at a blackboard. Watching these interviews, her nerves seem to writhe beneath her skin like snakes pinned to the ground by a pitchfork. Judy, didn't you understand that you weren't in Kansas anymore? Of course not, you were too busy enthralling us with despair-driven performances that approached frenzy, too busy stunning us with that one-in-a-generation voice that reached far over the rainbows. And we, your audience, were too busy listening, too busy watching in spellbound fascination the spectacle of your breakdown to be of any help to you at all.
It's always the same. When I begin a new story I'm convinced I'll never be able to find the right words, never be able to express myself with the clarity a good reader demands. But slowly, as the blank sheets of paper fill, I feel a hope that carries me on, and by the second or third rewrite, when my characters finally come to my rescue and take over the telling of their story, I feel such a relief.