Men To Whom God Is

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!

Teaching, Real Teaching, Is - Or Ought To Be - A Messy Business.

I Am Not Perfect." It Came Out In A Rush Of Breath. "see I Thought I Was. Thank God I Ain't. See A Perfect Thing Ain't Got A Chance. The World Kills It, Everything Perfect. (listen To Him!) Now See A Thing That Ain't Perfect, It Grows Like A Weed. Yeah, Like A Weed! A Thing That Ain't Perfect Gets Hand Clapping, Smiles, Takes The Wire An Easy Winner. But The World Ain't Set Up Right If You Perfect. You Lible To Run Right Into A Brick Wall. Looks Like Suicide. All The Weeds Say, Looka There, It Suicide!

If You Wait Until You Got Time To Write A Novel, Or Time To Write A Story, Or Time To Read The Hundred Thousands Of Books You Should Have Already Read - If You Wait For The Time, You Will Never Do It. ‘cause There Ain’t No Time; World Don’t Want You To Do That. World Wants You To Go To The Zoo And Eat Cotton Candy, Preferably Seven Days A Week.

What The Artist Owes The World Is His Work; Not A Model For Living.