He Looks Tired, Like Someone Walked On

Some Mornings... I Sit At The Kitchen Table Shaking Salt Into The Hairs On My Arm, And A Feeling Shoves Up In Me: It's Finished. Everything Went Past Without Me.

They Resumed Walking. Alex Felt An Ache In His Eyes And Throat. "i Don't Know What Happened To Me," He Said, Shaking His Head. "i Honestly Don't." Bennie Glanced At Him, A Middle-aged Man With Chaotic Silver Hair And Thoughtful Eyes. "you Grew Up, Alex," He Said, "just Like The Rest Of Us.

She'd Risked Everything, And Here Was The Result: The Raw, Warped Core Of Her Life.

That Adage About 'write What You Know' Is Basically The Opposite Of The Way I Function. I Write About What I'm Curious To Find Out.

I Write My First Draft By Hand, At Least For Fiction. For Non-fiction, I Write Happily On A Computer, But For Fiction I Write By Hand, Because I'm Trying To Achieve A Kind Of Thoughtless State, Or An Unconscious Instinctive State. I'm Not Reading What I Write When I Wrote. It's An Unconscious Outpouring That's A Mess, And It's Many, Many Steps Away From Anything Anyone Would Want To Read. Creating That Way Seems To Generate The Most Interesting Material For Me To Work With, Though.