I Never Know What I'm Going To

I Wanted A Drink. There Were A Hundred Reasons Why A Man Will Want A Drink, But I Wanted One Now For The Most Elementary Reason Of All. I Didn't Want To Feel What I Was Feeling, And A Voice Within Was Telling Me That I Needed A Drink, That I Couldn't Bear It Without It. But That Voice Is A Liar. You Can Always Bear The Pain. It'll Hurt, It'll Burn Like Acid In An Open Wound, But You Can Stand It. And, As Long As You Can Make Yourself Go On Choosing The Pain Over The Relief, You Can Keep Going.

One Thing That Helps Is To Give Myself Permission To Write Badly. I Tell Myself That I'm Going To Do My Five Or 10 Pages No Matter What, And That I Can Always Tear Them Up The Following Morning If I Want. I'll Have Lost Nothing-writing And Tearing Up Five Pages Would Leave Me No Further Behind Than If I Took The Day Off.

This Church Was Open And Seemingly Unattended, And It Was A Throwback In Another Way As Well. The Candles In The Little Side Altars Were Real Ones, Actual Wax Candles That Burned With An Open Flame. Lots Of Churches Have Switched Over To Electrified Altars. You Drop Your Quarter In The Slot And A Flame-shaped Bulb Goes On And Stays On For Your Quarter's Worth Of Time. It's Like A Parking Meter, And If You Stay Too Long They Tow Away Your Soul.

The Short Story, I Should Point Out, Is Perforce A Labor Of Love In Today's Literary World; There's Precious Little Economic Incentive To Write One.

If You Want To Write Fiction, The Best Thing You Can Do Is Take Two Aspirins, Lie Down In A Dark Room, And Wait For The Feeling To Pass.