I Thought I Would Lose, So I

I Worry About Images. Images Are What Things Mean.

You Can't Remember Sex. You Can Remember The Fact Of It, And Recall The Setting, And Even The Details, But The Sex Of The Sex Cannot Be Remembered, The Substantive Truth Of It, It Is By Nature Self-erasing, You Can Remember Its Anatomy And Be Left With A Judgment As To The Degree Of Your Liking Of It, But Whatever It Is As A Splurge Of Being, As A Loss, As A Charge Of The Conviction Of Love Stopping Your Heart Like Your Execution, There Is No Memory Of It In The Brain, Only The Deduction That It Happened And That Time Passed, Leaving You With A Silhouette That You Want To Fill In Again.

Writers Are Not Just People Who Sit Down And Write. They Hazard Themselves. Every Time You Compose A Book Your Composition Of Yourself Is At Stake.

Writing Is Like Driving At Night In The Fog. You Can Only See As Far As Your Headlights, But You Can Make The Whole Trip That Way.

I've Known Several Cases Of Writers Who Decide To Write About Something And They Research The Hell Out Of It And When They're Ready To Write, They Can't Move Because They Are So Burdened. I Start Writing. Whatever I Need Somehow Comes To Hand.