The Correctness And Quality Of What You

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.

It Is Odd That We Never Question The Feasibility Of A Football Team Practicing Long Hours For One Game; Yet In Writing We Rarely Give Ourselves The Space For Practice.

It Is Simply That Person's Time. Ours Will Come In This Lifetime Or The Next. No Matter. Continue To Practice.

If I Didn't Have That, Fear And Projections Over What Was Coming Next Could Have Taken Over. But It Was Tough. Don't Think I Was An Angel. It Was Hell.

When You Are Not Writing, You Are A Writer Too. It Doesn't Leave You.