Writing Is The Act Of

In The Past Few Years I've Assigned Books To Be Read Before A Student Attends One Of My Weeklong Seminars. I Have Been Astonished By How Few People -- People Who Supposedly Want To Write -- Read Books, And If They Read Them, How Little They Examine Them.

Our Bodies Are Garbage Heaps: We Collect Experience, And From The Decomposition Of The Thrown-out Eggshells, Spinach Leaves, Coffee Grinds, And Old Steak Bones Out Of Our Minds Come Nitrogen, Heat, And Very Fertile Soil. Out Of This Fertile Soil Bloom Our Poems And Stories. But This Does Not Come All At Once. It Takes Time. Continue To Turn Over And Over The Organic Details Of Your Life Until Some Of Them Fall Through The Garbage Of Discursive Thoughts To The Solid Ground Of Black Soil.

Because I've Been Doing My Practice For So Long, I Knew What To Do Even Under Really Hard Circumstances.

Friends Open The Door For Me To Write. Then I Get Paid Attention To And It Allows Me To Write Other Books. The Great Spring And The Thirtieth Anniversary Of Bones Just Came Out And While I'm Happy And Excited About That, I've Already Finished A New Book. That's What Practice Does. You Don't Get Caught.

Use Loneliness. Its Ache Creates Urgency To Reconnect With The World. Take That Aching And Use It To Propel You Deeper Into Your Need For Expression - To Speak, To Say Who You Are.