So Even Though I Couldn't Bear Writing

Be Tough In The Way A Blade Of Grass Is: Rooted, Willing To Lean, And At Peace With What Is Around It.

Choose Your Tools Carefully, But Not So Carefully That You Get Uptight Or Spend More Time At The Stationery Store Than At Your Writing Table.

Write What Disturbs You, What You Fear, What You Have Not Been Willing To Speak About. Be Willing To Be Split Open.

We Always Worry That We Are Copying Someone Else, That We Don't Have Our Own Style. Don't Worry. Writing Is A Communal Act. Contrary To Popular Belief, A Writer Is Not Prometheus Alone On A Hill Full Of Fire. We Are Very Arrogant To Think We Alone Have A Totally Original Mind. We Are Carried On The Backs Of All The Writers Who Came Before Us. We Live In The Present With All The History, Ideas, And Soda Pop Of This Time. It All Gets Mixed Up In Our Writing.

I Wonder If I Don't Give Too Much Of Myself To Writing: I Am Always Half Where I Am; The Other Half Is Feeding The Furnace, Kick-starting The Heat Of Creativity. I Am Making Love With Someone But At The Same Time I'm Noticing How This Graceful Hand Across My Belly Might Just Fit In With The Memory Of Lilacs In Albuquerque In 1974.