The Sunday self contemplates and considers, falls gratefully and with recognition into words like these:

It is only in the silence that our voice emerges. It is only in the movement of the hand across page, one word following the next, in the crafting of sentences that we know ourselves. We can talk ourselves blue in the face, and we may be telling a certain kind of truth, but it is not the deepest truth, not the truth of our private heart. When people ask me when I knew I wanted to be a writer, or when I "decided" to become a writer, it is this I think about. This bittersweet pleasure, this pressure and longing to find myself on the page.

— Dani Shapiro