I Cannot Believe Such Monstrous Energy Of

Fiction Does Not Spring Into The World Fully Grown, Like Athena. It Is The Process Of Writing And Rewriting That Makes A Fiction Original, If Not Profound.

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

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.

Art, Of Course, Is A Way Of Thinking, A Way Of Mining Reality.

When People Are Serving, Life Is No Longer Meaningless.