Flesh Could Not Keep Its

We Each Die Countless Little Deaths On Our Way To The Last. We Die Out Of Shame As Humiliation. We Perish From Despair. And, Of Course, We Die For Love.

We Have Great Cities To Visit: New York And Washington, Paris And London; And Further East, And Older Than Any Of These, The Legendary City Of Samarkand, Whose Crumbling Palaces And Mosques Still Welcome Travelers On The Silk Road. Weary Of Cities? Then We’ll Take To The Wilds. To The Islands Of Hawaii And The Mountains Of Japan, To Forests Where Civil War Dead Still Lie, And Stretches Of Sea No Mariner Ever Crossed. They All Have Their Poetry: The Glittering Cities And The Ruined, The Watery Wastes And The Dusty; I Want To Show You Them All. I Want To Show You Everything.

For A Writer, And Particularly A Writer Of My Genre, Which Is The Fantastical, I Think That It's To My Advantage To Feel Remote From And Disconnected From The World Of Deal Making.

Make Your Own Worlds. Make Your Own Laws. Make Your Own Creations, Your Own Star Systems. Don't Feel Answerable To Anyone, Or As Though You Have To Create After Some Preordained Model. You Don't Have To Write Like Myself, Or King Or Anne Rice: Be Yourself. Nothing Is More Wonderful Than Discovering A New Voice, Particularly If It Happens To Be Your Own.

No Tears, Please. It's A Waste Of Good Suffering.