Thinking Of Nothing. Trying To

Some Say I'm An Overnight Success. Well, That Was A Very Long Night That Lasted About 10 Years. But While I Do, Of Course, Now Feel The Pressure Having Had Books That Have Been Very Successful, I Just Know I Have To Concentrate On Writing For Myself. I Can't Worry About Genres Or Markets Or What Might Be Commercial Or Not. That Never Works.

Had Any Poet Adequately Described The Wretched Ugliness Of A Loved One Turned Inside Out With Grief?

She Felt Like A Fictional Character Who'd Escaped The Book In Which Her Creator Had Carefully And Kindly Trapped Her, Taken A Pair Of Scissors To Her Outline And Leaped, Free.

Will History Remember Us, I Wonder? I Do Hope So - To Imagine That One Might Do Something, Touch An Event Somehow, & Thereby Transcend The Bounds Of A Single Human Lifetime!

Doors Lead To Things And I've Never Met One I Haven't Wanted To Open.