When I Wrote And Got Out Of

Finally, One Just Has To Shut Up, Sit Down, And Write.

When I Wrote And Got Out Of The Way, Writing Did Writing.” (p.90)

We Have To Look At Our Own Inertia, Insecurities, Self-hate, Fear That, In Truth, We Have Nothing Valuable To Say. When Your Writing Blooms Out Of The Back Of This Garbage Compost, It Is Very Stable. You Are Not Running From Anything. You Can Have A Sense Of Artistic Security. If You Are Not Afraid Of The Voices Inside You, You Will Not Fear The Critics Outside You.

In Writing With Detail, You Are Turning To Face The World. It Is A Deeply Political Act, Because You Are Not Staying In The Heat Of Your Own Emotions. You Are Offering Up Some Good Solid Bread For The Hungry.

Life Is Not Orderly. No Matter How We Try To Make Life So, Right In The Middle Of It We Die, Lose A Leg, Fall In Love, Drop A Jar Of Applesauce. In Summer, We Work Hard To Make A Tidy Garden, Bordered By Pansies With Rows Or Clumps Of Columbine, Petunias, Bleeding Hearts. Then We Find Ourselves Longing For The Forest, Where Everything Has The Appearance Of Disorder; Yet We Feel Peaceful There.