If You're Gonna Write, For

Hell Came Right Along With God, Hand In Hand. The Stink Of Sulfur Swirled In The Air Of The Church, Fire Burned In The Aisles, And Brimstone Rained Out Of The Rafters. From The Evangelist's Oven Mouth Spewed Images Of A Place With Pitchforks, And Devils, And Lakes Of Fire That Burned Forever. God Had Fixed A Place Like That Because He Loved Us So Much.

There Is Something Beautiful About All Scars Of Whatever Nature. A Scar Means The Hurt Is Over, The Wound Is Closed And Healed, Done With.

The Writers Job Is To Get Naked, To Hide Nothing. To Look Away From Nothing. To Look At It. To Not Blink. To Be Not Embarrassed Or Shamed Of It. Strip It Down And Lets Get Down To Where The Blood Is, The Bone Is. Instead Of Hiding It With Clothes And All Kinds Of Other Stuff, Luxury!

I Believe Some People Are Just Too Damn Smart To Write Fiction.

The Truth Of The Matter Was Stories Was Everything And Everything Was Stories. Everybody Told Stories. It Was A Way Of Saying Who They Were In The World. It Was Their Understanding Of Themselves. It Was Letting Themselves Know How They Believed The World Worked, The Right Way And The Way That Was Not So Right.