What We Fear We Often Rage Against.

Develop Craftsmanship Through Years Of Wide Reading.

Walking On The Land Or Digging In The Fine Soil I Am Intensely Aware That Time Quivers Slightly, Changes Occurring In Imperceptible And Minute Ways, Accumulating So Subtly That They Seem Not To Exist. Yet The Tiny Shifts In Everything--cell Replication, The Rain Of Dust Motes, Lengthening Hair, Wind-pushed Rocks--press Inexorably On And On.

What I Find To Be Very Bad Advice Is The Snappy Little Sentence, 'write What You Know.' It Is The Most Tiresome And Stupid Advice That Could Possibly Be Given. If We Write Simply About What We Know We Never Grow. We Don't Develop Any Facility For Languages, Or An Interest In Others, Or A Desire To Travel And Explore And Face Experience Head-on. We Just Coil Tighter And Tighter Into Our Boring Little Selves. What One Should Write About Is What Interests One.

He Pressed His Face Into The Fabric And Breathed In Slowly Through His Mouth And Nose, Hoping For The Faintest Smoke And Mountain Sage And Salty Sweet Stink Of Jack But There Was No Real Scent, Only The Memory Of It, The Imagined Power Of Brokeback Mountain Of Which Nothing Was Left But What He Held In His Hands.

If A Piece Of Knotted String Can Unleash The Wind, And If A Drowned Man Can Awaken, Then I Believe A Broken Man Can Heal.