I Do Not Know What I Regret.

I Eat Broccoli. I Think About The Plot. I Pace In Circles For Hours, Counter-clockwise, Listening To Music. I Try To Think Of One Detail In The Scene I'm About To Write That I'm Really Excited About Writing. Until I Can Come Up With That One Detail, I Pace.

We Are The Nation Of Dreams. We Are Seers. We Are Wizards. We Speak In Visions. Our Letters Are Like Flocks Of Doves, Released From Under Our Hats. We Have Only To Stretch Out Our Hand And Desire, And What We Wish For Settles Like A Kerchief In Our Palm. We Are A Race Of Sorcerers, Enchanters. We Are Atlantis. We Are The Wizard-isle Of Mu.

I Write For Teens Partially To Work Out Whatever It Was That I Needed To From My Own Teenage Years.

...for Reading, Once Begun, Quickly Becomes Home And Circle And Court And Family, And Indeed, Without Narrative, I Felt Exiled From My Own Country. By The Transport Of Books, That Which Is Most Foreign Becomes One's Familiar Walks And Avenues; While That Which Is Most Familiar Is Removed To Delightful Strangeness; And Unmoving, One Travels Infinite Causeways, Immobile And Thus Unfettered.

I Don't Know When They First Had Feeds. Like Maybe, Fifty Or A Hundred Years Ago. Before That, They Had To Use Their Hands And Their Eyes. Computers Were All Outside The Body. They Carried Them Around Outside Of Them, In Their Hands, Like If You Carried Your Lungs In A Briefcase And Opened It To Breathe.