Writing Comes From Reading, And

Change Itself Is What Fascinates Me. I Am Drawn, As A Moth To The Flame, By Edge Situations, By Situations Of Metamorphosis.

If You Can't Fix It, You Have To Stand It.

For If Jack Buggit Could Escape From The Pickle Jar, If A Bird With A Broken Neck Could Fly Away, What Else Might Be Possible? Water May Be Older Than Light, Diamonds Crack In Hot Goat's Blood, Mountaintops Give Off Cold Fire, Forests Appear In Mid-ocean, It May Happen That A Crab Is Caught With The Shadow Of A Hand On Its Back, And That The Wind Be Imprisoned In A Bit Of Knotted String. And It May Be That Love Sometimes Occurs Without Pain Or Misery.

It Is My Feeling That A Story Is Not Finished Until It Is Read, And That The Reader Finishes It Through His Or Her Life Experience, Prejudices, Worldview And Thoughts.

And They Shook Hands, Hit Each Other On The Shoulder, Then There Was Forty Feet Of Distance Between Them And Nothing To Do But Drive Away In Opposite Directions. Within A Mile Ennis Felt Like Someone Was Pulling His Guts Out Hand Over Hand A Yard At A Time. He Stopped At The Side Of The Road And, In The Whirling New Snow, Tried To Puke But Nothing Came Up. He Felt About As Bad As He Ever Had And It Took A Long Time For The Feeling To Wear Off.