Fiction Writing Feels More Honest To Me.

I'd Trapped Myself In A Script.... But To Be Scripted At All Is To Be Prepackaged, Programmed, Pinned To A Page. Only The Unwritten Can Truly Live A Life. So Who I Was, What I Was, Had To Be Unwritten.

Everybody Gets Jolted. You, Me, Before We Die We’ll All Get Nailed, Lots Of Times. But That Doesn’t Mean We’ll Get Turned Into Witches. You Can’t Avoid Getting Zapped, But You Can Avoid Passing The Mean Energy On. That’s The Interesting Thing About Witches, The Challenge Of Them-- Learning Not To Hit Back, Or Hit Somebody Else, When They Zap You. You Can Bury The Zap, For Instance, Like The Gods Buried The Titans In The Center Of The Earth. Or You Can Be Like A River When A Forest Fire Hits It--phshhhhhhhhhhhh! Just Drown It, Drown All The Heat And Let It Wash Away.

Punctuationally Speaking, Wonder Is A Period At The End Of A Statement We've Long Taken For Granted, Suddenly Looking Up And Seeing The Sinuous Curve Of A Tall Black Hat On Its Head, And Realizing It Was A Question Mark All Along.

Faith Of Cranes Is A Love Song To The Beauty And Worth Of The Lives We Are Able To Lead In The World Just As It Is, Troubled Though It Be... The Writing Is Honest, Intensely Lived, And Overflowing With Heart: Broken, Mended, And Whole.

At Last The Cold Crept Up My Spine; At Last It Filled Me From Foot To Head; At Last I Grew So Chill And Desolate That All Thought And Pain And Awareness Came To A Standstill. I Wasn't Miserable Anymore: I Wasn't Anything At All. I Was A Nothing-- A Random Configuration Of Molecules. If My Heart Still Beat I Didn't Know It. I Was Aware Of One Thing Only; Next To The Gaping Fact Called Death, All I Knew Was Nothing, All I Did Meant Nothing, All I Felt Conveyed Nothing. This Was No Passing Thought. It Was A Gnawing, Palpable Emptiness More Real Than The Cold.