If Only A Man Could Spit His

Strange Thoughts Brew In Your Heart When You Spend Too Much Time With Old Books

A White Tiger Keeps No Friends. It's Too Dangerous.

A Rich Man's Body Is Like A Premium Cotton Pillow, White And Soft And Blank. ''ours'' Is Different. My Father's Spine Was A Knotted Rope, The Kind That Women Use In Villages To Pull Water From Wells; The Clavicle Curved Around His Neck In High Relief, Like A Dog's Collar; Cuts And Nicks And Scars, Like Little Whip Marks In His Flesh, Ran Down His Chest And Waist, Reaching Down Below His Hip Bones Into His Buttocks. The Story Of A Poor Man's Life Is Written On His Body, In A Sharp Pen.

In A Sense, Journalism Can Be Both Helpful And Detrimental To A Writer Of Fiction Because The Kind Of Writing You Need To Do As A Journalist Is So Different. It Has To Be Clear, Unambiguous, Concise, And As A Writer Often You Are Trying To Do Things That Are More Ambiguous. I Find That Writing Fiction Is Often An Antidote To Reading And Writing Too Much Journalism.

Here's A Strange Fact: Murder A Man, And You Feel Responsible For His Life - ''possessive'', Even. You Know More About Him Than His Father And Mother; They Knew His Fetus, But You Know His Corpse. Only You Can Complete The Story Of His Life, Only You Know Why His Body Has To Be Pushed Into The Fire Before Its Time, And Why His Toes Curl Up And Fight For Another Hour On Earth.