The Problem Is We Think We Exist.

When You Bring The Darkness To The Table, It Doesn't Rule You Or Hurt Other People, But When We Keep It Secret, It's Dangerous.

Shut Up And Write Anyway. Don't Use Anything As An Excuse.

Our Bodies Are Garbage Heaps: We Collect Experience, And From The Decomposition Of The Thrown-out Eggshells, Spinach Leaves, Coffee Grinds, And Old Steak Bones Out Of Our Minds Come Nitrogen, Heat, And Very Fertile Soil. Out Of This Fertile Soil Bloom Our Poems And Stories. But This Does Not Come All At Once. It Takes Time. Continue To Turn Over And Over The Organic Details Of Your Life Until Some Of Them Fall Through The Garbage Of Discursive Thoughts To The Solid Ground Of Black Soil.

It Is Very Important To Go Home If You Want Your Work To Be Whole. You Don't Have To Move In With Your Parents Again And Collect A Weekly Allowance, But You Must Claim Where You Come From And Look Deep Into It. Come To Honor And Embrace It, Or At The Least, Accept It.

I Think Book Publishing Is Fun, But I Also Know I've Been Very Lucky.