I'm Learning To Hate The Sound Of

There Were Days When No Kid Came Out Of His House Without Looking Around. The Week After Halloween Had A Quality Both Hungover And Ominous, The Light Pitched, The Sky Smashed Against The Rooftops.

Someday I Would Change My Name To Shut Up And Save Everybody A Lot Of Time.

What I'm Constantly Striving For In My Prose Is Clarity. So That, Ideally, The Writing Will Become So Transparent That The Reader Will Forget That The Medium Of Communication Is Language.

You Discovered Yourself And What Really Mattered Only After You Passed Through The Lens Of The Fairy Tale, Imposed On Every Human Female And Male Alike, That Someone Existed Out In The Forest Of The World For You To Love And Marry.

I've Discovered That Like Every Writer, I'm Helpless Myself - And That Means I Find Myself Unconsciously Or Semi-consciously Repeating Motifs And Themes And Even Using Certain Words Or Images Recurrently In My Work, No Matter How Much I Think I'm Starting Fresh. But I've Always Admired Artists Who Made A Specific Sport Of Trying To Visit Different Kinds Of Genres Or Mediums Or Modes - Not Just 'western' Or 'detective', But Comedy/tragedy, Epic And Miniature, Traditional/experimental.