Well, You Know This World

I Never Even Considered Writing A Career Option. I Just Liked The Play Of Words. I Was Certainly Interested In Story, But The Stories I Was Telling Then Were In Narrative Verse And Prose Poems, Short And Succinct, Except For One Novel-length Poem Written In Narrative Couplets.

There Were Two Forests For Every One You Entered. There Was The One You Walked In, The Physical Echo, And Then There Was The One That Was Connected To All The Other Forests, With No Consideration Of Distance, Or Time. The Forest Primeval, Remembered Through The Collective Memory Of Every Tree In The Same Way That People Remembered Myth- Through The Collective Subconscious That Jung Mapped, The Shared Mythic Resonance That Lay Buried In Every Human Mind. Legend And Myth, All Tangled In An Alphabet Of Trees Remembered, Not Always With Understanding, But With Wonder. With Awe.

Every Time You Do A Good Deed You Shine The Light A Little Farther Into The Dark. And The Thing Is, When You're Gone That Light Is Going To Keep Shining On, Pushing The Shadows Back.

The Puppet Thinks: It's Not So Much What They Make Me Do As Their Hands Inside Me.

I Write On A Computer, But I've Run The Complete Gambit. When I Was Very Young, I Wrote With A Ballpoint Pen In School Notebooks. Then I Got Pretentious And Started Writing With A Dip Pen On Parchment (i Wrote At Least A Novel-length Poem That Way). Moved On To A Fountain Pen. Then A Typewriter, Then An Electric Self-correct. Then Someone Gave Me A Word Processor And I Was Amazed At Being Able To Fit Ten Pages On One Of Those Floppy Discs.