Find A Pile Of Gold And Sit

When People Are Serving, Life Is No Longer Meaningless.

As Every Writer Knows... There Is Something Mysterious About The Writer's Ability, On Any Given Day, To Write. When The Juices Are Flowing, Or The Writer Is 'hot', An Invisible Wall Seems To Fall Away, And The Writer Moves Easily And Surely From One Kind Of Reality To Another... Every Writer Has Experienced At Least Moments Of This Strange, Magical State. Reading Student Fiction One Can Spot At Once Where The Power Turns On And Where It Turns Off, Where The Writer Writes From 'inspiration' Or Deep, Flowing Vision, And Where He Had To Struggle Along On Mere Intellect.

Talking, Talking. Spinning A Web Of Words, Pale Walls Of Dreams, Between Myself And All I See.

They Watch On, Evil, Incredibly Stupid, Enjoying My Destruction. 'poor Grendel's Had An Accident,' I Whisper. 'so May You All.

What Art Ought To Do Is Tell Stories Which Are Moment-by-moment Wonderful, Which Are True To Human Experience, And Which In No Way Explain Human Experience.