I Met Someone Who Lives In An

All Paths Lead Nowhere; Choose One With Heart...

I've Discovered That Like Every Writer, I'm Helpless Myself - And That Means I Find Myself Unconsciously Or Semi-consciously Repeating Motifs And Themes And Even Using Certain Words Or Images Recurrently In My Work, No Matter How Much I Think I'm Starting Fresh. But I've Always Admired Artists Who Made A Specific Sport Of Trying To Visit Different Kinds Of Genres Or Mediums Or Modes - Not Just 'western' Or 'detective', But Comedy/tragedy, Epic And Miniature, Traditional/experimental.

My Inner Chemistry Had Been Hijacked By A Mad Scientist, Who Poured The Fizzy, Volatile Contents Of My Heart From A Test Tube Marked Sober Reality Into Another Labeled Sunny Delusion, And Back Again, Faster And Faster, Until The Floor Of My Life Was Slick With Spillage.

What Age Is A Black Boy When He Learns He's Scary?

I Never Take Any Notes Or Draw Charts Or Make Elaborate Diagrams, But I Hold An Image Of The Shape Of A Book In My Head And Work From That Mental Hologram.