I'd Rather Get A Brain Tumor Than

Poetry At Its Best Is The Language Your Soul Would Speak If You Could Teach Your Soul To Speak.

This Infantile Sense Of Order Tended To Infect My Life At Large. Up At 5:30 A.m., Coffee, Oatmeal, Perhaps Sausage (homemade), And Fresh Eggs Giving One Of The Yolks To Lola. Listening To Npr And Grieving More Recently Over The Absence Of Bob Edwards Who Was The Sound Of Morning As Surely As Birds. Reading A Paragraph Or Two Of Emerson Or Loren Eiseley To Raise The Level Of My Thinking. Going Out To Feed The Cattle If It Was During Our Six Months Of Bad Weather.

The Only Advice I Can Give To Aspiring Writers Is Don't Do It Unless You're Willing To Give Your Whole Life To It. Red Wine And Garlic Also Helps.

I Wonder, When A Writer's Blocked And Doesn't Have Any Resources To Pull Himself Out Of It, Why Doesn't He Jump In His Car And Drive Around The U.s.a.? I Went Last Winter For Seven Thousand Miles And It Was Lovely. Inexpensive, Too.

I've Never Felt Influenced By Ernest Hemingway Though I Suppose There Is Something Inevitable There.