I Was Going To Die And It

We Were Always Getting Away With Something, Which Implied That Someone Was Always Watching Us, Which Meant That We Were Not Alone In This World.

Writing A Novel Was Like I Had Some Play-doh To Work With And Could Just Keep Working With It - Doing A Million Drafts And Things Changing Radically And Characters Appearing And Disappearing And Solving Mysteries: Why Is This Thing Here? Should I Just Take That Away? And Then Realizing, No, That Is There, In Fact, Because That Is The Key To This. I Love That Sort Of Detective Work, Keeping The Faith Alive Until All The Questions Have Been Sleuthed Out.

Are You Angry? Punch A Pillow. Was It Satisfying? Not Hardly. These Days People Are Too Angry For Punching. What You Might Try Is Stabbing. Take An Old Pillow And Lay It On The Front Lawn. Stab It With A Big Pointy Knife. Again And Again And Again. Stab Hard Enough For The Point Of The Knife To Go Into The Ground. Stab Until The Pillow Is Gone And You Are Just Stabbing The Earth Again And Again, As If You Want To Kill It For Continuing To Spin, As If You Are Getting Revenge For Having To Live On This Planet Day After Day, Alone.

I'm Always The Kind Of Friend Or Girlfriend Who Suggests, When There's Some Cataclysmic Problem In The Relationship, I'm Like, "well, Maybe We Can Come Up With A Creative Activity That Will Help Us Out." I'm Like, "let's Get Out The Pens! Draw A Picture Of How Much You Hate Me!"

I Guess Like Any Writer Or Screenwriter I'm Alone In My Own World So Much Of The Time That I'm Often Trying To Force Myself Out Of My World. Into More Risk. A Less Controlled Kind Of Inspiration. I'm So Keenly Aware Of How Easy It's Getting To Not Leave The House, With Amazon, Especially.