The Bottom Line Is That

The Sky Was Electric Blue Above The Trees But The Yard Felt Dark. Stephanie Went To The Edge Of The Lawn And Sat Her Forehead On Her Knees. The Grass And Soil Were Still Warm From The Day. She Wanted To Cry But She Couldn't. The Feeling Was Too Deep.

When Does A Fake Mohawk Become A Real Mohawk? Who Decides? How Do You Know If It's Happened?

I Wonder What Proust Would Have Made Of Our Present-day Locus Of Collective Fantasy, The Internet. I’m Guessing He Would Have Seized On Its Wistful Aspect, Pointing Out Gently And With Wry Humor That Much Of What Beguiles Us Is The Act Of Reaching For What Isn’t There.

I Haven't Had Writer's Block. I Think It's Because My Process Involves Writing Very Badly.

I Haven’t Had Trouble With Writer’s Block. I Think It’s Because My Process Involves Writing Very Badly. My First Drafts Are Filled With Lurching, Clichéd Writing, Outright Flailing Around. Writing That Doesn’t Have A Good Voice Or Any Voice. But Then There Will Be Good Moments. It Seems Writer’s Block Is Often A Dislike Of Writing Badly And Waiting For Writing Better To Happen.