‘I remember how I finished the story “A Butterfly on F Street.” I was seeing a therapist at the time, in 1990 or ’91, because I was in a depressive mood. And I came back on the subway to Rosslyn, where I would take the bus to my apartment in Arlington. All of a sudden the final part of the story just came to me for some reason. I wasn’t even thinking about the story when I got on the subway, then all of a sudden I was thinking about it and it unfolded – just like that. Maybe that’s why I don’t really lash my back and worry about not working. I figure it it’s going to come to you, it’ll come to you. If I had pushed myself for some sort of proper ending, I don’t think I would have had the ending that’s there in the story now.’

– Edward P. Jones, The Art of Fiction No. 222, The Paris Review

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