Madness, As I Understood It From Books,

I Have Friends Who Are Capable Of Writing A Very Rough Draft And Then Going Back And Embroidering - They're Sort Of The Cathedral Builders Of Fiction. I Never Really Know What I'm Doing, And All My Pleasure's On The Level Of The Line. It's A Weird Way To Move Forward. It's Kind Of Like A Way To Caterpillar Your Way Through These Great Woods. The Best Ones, Whatever I Feel Like I'm Writing About, Some Other Secret Thing Will Begin To Come Into Focus.

Mythology Is A Really Beautiful Vocabulary Passed Down Through Centuries That Helps Us Understand The Perennial Parts Of Our Nature.

Sometimes, When You're Writing Sentence By Sentence, You're Not Really Sure What Footprints You're Going To Fall Into, Or What Ghosts Might Appear.

My Fingers Curl Through The Holes In The Wicker, Through The Wet Grass Beneath It, Trying To Hold Tight To The Sharp Blades Of The Present. Somewhere In My Brain A Sinkhole Is Bubbling Over, And Each Bubble Contains A Scene From A Tiny Sunken World ... I Have Never Been The Prophet Of My Own Past Before. It Makes Me Wonder How The Healthy Dreamers Can Bear To Sleep At All, If Sleep Means That You Have To Peer Into That Sinkhole By Yourself. ... I Had Almost Forgotten This Occipital Sorrow, The Way You Are So Alone With The Things You See In Dreams.

It's Funny, For A Long Time I Would Go Watermelon-red And Deny That I Was A Magical Realist. It Felt Imprecise To Me, A Misrepresentation.