Nothing Got Inside The Head Without Becoming

This Evening I Begin A Notebook. If Anyone Reads This, I Trust They Will Forgive My Overuse Of "i". I Can't Stop It. I'm Writing This.

What You Discovered About Yourself In Raising Children Wasn't Always Agreeable Or Attractive.

The World Was Ending Then, It's Ending Still, And I'm Happy To Belong To It Again.

Readers And Writers Are United In Their Need For Solitude, In Their Pursuit Of Substance In A Time Of Ever-increasing Evanescence: In Their Reach Inward, Via Print, For A Way Out Of Loneliness.

Every Good Writer I Know Needs To Go Into Some Deep, Quiet Place To Do Work That Is Fully Imagined. And What The Internet Brings Is Lots Of Vulgar Data. It Is The Antithesis Of The Imagination. It Leaves Nothing To The Imagination.