We need to build our tolerance for intimacy. We think of intimacy, closeness as something good. We can’t get enough of it, we tell ourselves. But in truth we fear we’ll disappear. Closeness means our annihilation. If we find something we squirm at, we ought to read it over and over until it becomes part of us. Then that work won’t destroy us, it will make us larger. When we write, we need simply to become aware when we’re moving in on something and to stay there; even if our knees wobble and tears spring from our eyes, we need to keep that hand moving. Do you think you’re finished? Keep writing. Thinking can be just another trick to escape. Learn to get close — “every eyelash, the pink flesh on the edge of my eyelid, the red network of vessels….” — and to stay in there and hold steady.