I wrote from the image, just stared at it a longer time than I might normally, and realized I was thinking of my mother. So I started there, something she'd said to me once probably fifty years ago. My writing is always meant to be heard—in the head, in the heart, often in performance—so the idea of a listener rather than a reader didn't cause me any trouble. But recording was fascinating—I'm not an actor, just a talker and a reader. I found that when I got involved, I looked up from the script and spoke from memory. And in that particular trance, I rushed certain phrases. And moreso, as I really heard the meaning, really remembered the past, really saw the starflower, found that I couldn't even say certain words without jumbling them, crushing them with my tongue. Then I'd remember that I wasn't looking at the script and that seemed impossible and dart my eyes down looking for my place and fumble further, and I'd swear. I almost should have kept a few of those moments. But recording's a little like writing—you can revise, and I did. But you can also rehearse, and that's what I realized all my early takes were about: rehearsing my part as my own spokesperson, my own interpreter, looking at an image of a flower that's gone, a solid month gone, and just saying what came to mind, or at least what had come to mind when I wrote the script.