All Paths Lead Nowhere; Choose One With

I've Had The Odd Good Luck Of Starting Slowly And Building Gradually, Something Few Writers Are Allowed Anymore. As A Result I've Seen Each Of My Books Called The Breakthrough. And Each Was, In Its Way.

How Often Had That Hydrant Even Been Opened? Did You Jet Water Through A Car Window, What, Twice At Best? Summer Burned Just A Few Afternoons Long, In The End. As For Flying, Dose Never Even Glanced At The Sky. Flying Was A Summer Within A Summer, A Whim. So Why Think Of It At All?

Listen To Me. I’m Shy. I’m Not Stupid. I Can’t Meet People’s Eyes. I Don’t Know If You Understand What That’s Like. There’s A Whole World Going On Around Me, I’m Aware Of That. It’s Not Because I Don’t Want To Look At You, Lucinda. It’s That I Don’t Want To Be Seen.

Insomnia Is A Variant Of Tourette's--the Waking Brain Races, Sampling The World After The World Has Turned Away, Touching It Everywhere, Refusing To Settle, To Join The Collective Nod. The Insomniac Brain Is A Sort Of Conspiracy Theorist As Well, Believing Too Much In Its Own Paranoiac Importance--as Though If It Were To Blink, Then Doze, The World Might Be Overrun By Some Encroaching Calamity, Which Its Obsessive Musings Are Somehow Fending Off.

For Those Whose Ganglia Were Formed Pre-tv, The Mimetic Deployment Of Pop-culture Icons Seems At Best An Annoying Tic And At Worst A Dangerous Vapidity That Compromises Fiction's Seriousness By Dating It Out Of The Platonic Always, Where It Ought To Reside.