To Me, The Process Of Writing Is

People Who've Written About Abraham Lincoln's Writing Emphasize How Logical He Was. His Writing Was A Syllogistic Tool. He Would Say, If A, Then B, And He Would Reason Through It. His Late Writing Especially Is So Tight And So Beautifully Reasoned.

I Turned 54 This Year And I Find Myself Feeling Like I'm In A Bit Of A Race To Get Down On Paper The Way I Really Feel About Life - Or The Way It Has Presented To Me. And Because It Has Presented To Me Very Beautifully, This Is Hard. It Is Technically Very Hard To Show Positive Manifestations.

That Seems To Be The Definition Of 'novel' For Me: A Story That Hasn't Yet Discovered A Way To Be Brief.

Night Was Falling. Birds Were Singing. Birds Were, It Occurred To Me To Say, Enacting A Frantic Celebration Of Day's End. They Were Manifesting As The Earth's Bright-colored Nerve Endings, The Sun's Descent Urging Them Into Activity, Filling Them Individually With Life Nectar, The Life Nectar Then Being Passed Into The World, Out Of Each Beak, In The Form Of That Bird's Distinctive Song, Which Was, In Turn, An Accident Of Beak Shape, Throat Shape, Breast Configuration, Brain Chemistry: Some Birds Blessed In Voice, Others Cursed; Some Squeaking, Others Rapturous.

For Me, Things Were Either Very Sullied Or Very Pure, Very Controlled Or Very Under-controlled.