I Kind Of Always Think My Work

I Waited Just To See You At That Kind Of Peace, I Wanted To Be Beside You, I Wanted You To Wake Up Slowly Or Startle, Or Just Half Awaken And Turn Over Or Murmur My Name. I Wanted To Watch You Forever, Or Sleep Beside You Forever, Or Sleep Forever While You Woke And Watched Me, Something Forever Anyway. I Wanted To Kiss You, Rumple Your Hair, Rest Three Fingertips On Your Hip Bone Warm And Smooth, Wake You That Way Or Hush You Back To Sleep.

If You Have Ever Slept In A Covered Casserole Dish On The Highest Peak Of A Mountain Range, Then You Know That It Is An Uncomfortable Place To Lay One's Head, Even If You Find A Dish Towel Inside It That Can Serve As A Blanket.

When It Was First Optioned, I Was Told That The Chances Of The Basic Eight Becoming A Film Were Slim Because No One Was Making Teen Movies, And Then Later, I Was Told That The Chances Were Slim Because There Were So Many Teen Movies, And Then I Was Later Told That The Chances Were Slim Because Teen Films Were Over. I'm Not Sure When The Magic Window Of Opportunity Was, But Perhaps It's Still On The Horizon.

The Burning Of A Book Is A Sad, Sad Sight, For Even Though A Book Is Nothing But Ink And Paper, It Feels As If The Ideas Contained In The Book Are Disappearing As The Pages Turn To Ashes And The Cover And Binding--which Is The Term For The Stitching And Glue That Holds The Pages Together--blacken And Curl As The Flames Do Their Wicked Work. When Someone Is Burning A Book, They Are Showing Utter Contempt For All Of The Thinking That Produced Its Ideas, All Of The Labor That Went Into Its Words And Sentences, And All Of The Trouble That Befell The Author . . .

Young Writers Should Read Books Past Bedtime And Write Things Down In Notebooks When They Are Supposed To Be Doing Something Else.