I Feel Too Much. It's Like Being

First, You Hand Over Some Basics-overwhelming Joy, Existential Angst, A Giving-in To Desire, Etc. And Then You Promise To Withstand Talking Idly About The Weather, To Encourage Cliché, To Uphold The Virtues Of Average. You Hand Over The Need To Be Understood And, In Return, You Get A Bar Of Normal Soap. And You Can Wash In It And Be Daily Reborn To A Safe World Of Modest, Enduring Love Or, At Least, Mild, Well-mannered Bonding.

And I Know I'm Supposed To Feel Guilty For Wanting People To Buy My Books... And Books In General? Novels And Poetry, They Belong To The Realm Of Art. How Dirty Of Us To Try To Hawk Art! But, After A Decade Of Hand-wringing And Apologies, I Can't Quite Muster The Guilt Anymore.

Our Imaginations Are Strong As Children. Sometimes They Get Shoved Aside, These Imaginations. They Get Dusty And Mildewed With Age. The Imagination Is A Muscle That Has To Be Put To Use Or It Shrivels.

Our Stories Are What We Have,” Our Good Mother Says. “our Stories Preserve Us. We Give Them To One Another. Our Stories Have Value. Do You Understand?

The Intricacy Of Plotting A Thriller Is Akin To Writing Formal Poetry.