When she looks out of the studio's front wall of windows, she can't see the gorge. It is several miles to her right. All she sees is the enormous high-desert sky as it bends over the horizon, a cloak on the shoulder of the earth. As we talk, Goldberg stands hip deep in the earth, listening to the blueness of the sky. Her studio, partly buried, is made of tin cans, old tires and packed earth.
Writing lets it all out.
That's a lot of energy. The next step is to learn to dig gullies and direct the water, the energy. I've got that energy I can direct. Let's say I'm really writing about my father and the writing is hot. And something keeps pulling me to a bologna sandwich.