What Smells Strongly Of Crap To One

A Delicate, Inexorable Lattice Of Inferences Began To Assemble Themselves, Like A Crystal, In The Old Man's Mind, Shivering, Catching The Light In Glints And Surmises.

We Have The Idea That Our Hearts, Once Broken, Scar Over With An Indestructible Tissue That Prevents Their Ever Breaking Again In Quite The Same Place.

Along The Way, He Or She Discovers That The World Has Been Broken For As Long As Anyone Can Remember. Everyone, Sooner Or Later, Gets A Thorough Schooling In Brokenness. The Question Becomes What To Do With The Pieces?

I Might Spend 100 Pages Trying To Get To Know The World I'm Writing About: Its Contours, Who Are My Main Characters, What Are Their Relationships To Each Other, And Just Trying To Get A Sense Of What And Who This Book Is About. Usually Around That Point Of 100 Pages, I Start To Feel Like I'm Lost, I Have Too Much Material, It's Time To Start Making Some Choices. It's Typically At That Point That I Sit Down And Try To Make A Formal Outline And Winnow Out What's Not Working And What I'm Most Interested In, Where The Story Seems To Be Going.

To Me, Clark Kent In A Phone Booth And Houdini In A Packing Crate, They Were One And The Same Thing," He Would Learnedly Expound At Wondercon Or Angoulême Or To The Editor Of The Comics Journal . "you Weren't The Same Person When You Came Out As When You Went In.