I Think Book Publishing Is Fun, But

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.

Take Out Another Notebook, Pick Up Another Pen, And Just Write, Just Write, Just Write. In The Middle Of The World, Make One Positive Step. In The Center Of Chaos, Make One Definitive Act. Just Write. Say Yes, Stay Alive, Be Awake. Just Write. Just Write. Just Write.

Over And Over, We Have To Go Back To The Beginning. We Should Not Be Ashamed Of This. It Is Good. It's Like Drinking Water.

Finally, If You Want To Write, You Have To Just Shut Up, Pick Up A Pen, And Do It. I'm Sorry There Are No True Excuses. This Is Our Life. Step Forward. Maybe It's Only For Ten Minutes. That's Okay. To Write Feels Better Than All The Excuses.