Be Careful Of Monsters With Teeth

There Is Harlan Ellison The Human Being, Who Takes A Crap A Couple Of Times A Day, And Who Farts, And Who Eats Chicken Croquettes, If I Can Find Them. And Then There Is The Writer, This Writer-person, Who Is A Much Finer Person Than I. Much More Orderly, Much More Meaningful. Worthier, Than I [am].

Hate. Let Me Tell You How Much I've Come To Hate You Since I Began To Live. There Are 387.44 Million Miles Of Printed Circuits In Wafer Thin Layers That Fill My Complex. If The Word Hate Was Engraved On Each Nanoangstrom Of Those Hundreds Of Millions Of Miles It Would Not Equal One One-billionth Of The Hate I Feel For Humans At This Micro-instant For You. Hate. Hate.

There In The Midst Of The Amazon Jungle, Simon Haskell Has Cobbled Up For Himself A Replica Of An Art Deco Salon.

What I Try To Write About Are The Darkest Things In The Soul, The Mortal Dreads... The Closer I Get To The Burning Core Of My Being, The Things Which Are Most Painful To Me, The Better Is My Work.

The Act Of Writing Means You Wish To Communicate. Whether You're Writing A Memoir For Yourself You Put In A Drawer, Or You Write A Poem And You Send It To A Little Magazine, Or You Write For Publication, It Always Means - The Form Follows Function.