They Watch On, Evil, Incredibly Stupid, Enjoying

As Every Writer Knows... There Is Something Mysterious About The Writer's Ability, On Any Given Day, To Write. When The Juices Are Flowing, Or The Writer Is 'hot', An Invisible Wall Seems To Fall Away, And The Writer Moves Easily And Surely From One Kind Of Reality To Another... Every Writer Has Experienced At Least Moments Of This Strange, Magical State. Reading Student Fiction One Can Spot At Once Where The Power Turns On And Where It Turns Off, Where The Writer Writes From 'inspiration' Or Deep, Flowing Vision, And Where He Had To Struggle Along On Mere Intellect.

What Art Ought To Do Is Tell Stories Which Are Moment-by-moment Wonderful, Which Are True To Human Experience, And Which In No Way Explain Human Experience.

A Common And Usually Unfortunate Answer Is “write About What You Know.” Nothing Can Be More Limiting To The Imagination, Nothing Is Quicker To Turn On The Psyche's Censoring Devices And Distortion Systems, Than Trying To Write Truthfully.

We Read Five Words On The First Page Of A Really Good Novel And We Begin To Forget That We Are Reading Printed Words On A Page; We Begin To See Images.

The Primary Subject Of Fiction Is And Has Always Been Human Emotion, Values, And Beliefs.