Creativity Is No Big Deal.

The Problem Is We Think We Exist.

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 Odd That We Never Question The Feasibility Of A Football Team Practicing Long Hours For One Game; Yet In Writing We Rarely Give Ourselves The Space For Practice.

Let's Say I've Directed That [writing] Energy Into Writing My Latest Book But Suddenly, I Really Want To Write About An Onion. I Don't Say To Myself, "no, You Have Stay On The Subject," Because I Know That The Longer I Stay On The Subject The More Boring I Get. So, If My Mind Wants To Write About An Onion, It Might Be A Deeper Way To Go Into What I'm Working On, Even Though It Might Seem Irrelevant. This Is How I've Learned To Follow My Mind.

Oh, My Passion! That Is What Finally Carried Me Through. Let Passion Burn All The Way, Heating Up Every Layer Of The Psyche.