Trust In What You Love, Continue To

Life Is Not Orderly. No Matter How We Try To Make Life So, Right In The Middle Of It We Die, Lose A Leg, Fall In Love, Drop A Jar Of Applesauce. In Summer, We Work Hard To Make A Tidy Garden, Bordered By Pansies With Rows Or Clumps Of Columbine, Petunias, Bleeding Hearts. Then We Find Ourselves Longing For The Forest, Where Everything Has The Appearance Of Disorder; Yet We Feel Peaceful There.

I Honor English Majors. It's A Dumb Thing To Major In. It Leads Nowhere. It's Good To Be Dumb, It Allows Us To Love Something For No Reason. That's The Best Kind Of Love.

Watch Yourself. Every Minute We Change. It Is A Great Opportunity. At Any Point, We Can Step Out Of Our Frozen Selves And Our Ideas And Begin Fresh.

Writing Is The Crack Through Which You Can Crawl Into A Bigger World, Into Your Wild Mind.

We Have To Look At Our Own Inertia, Insecurities, Self-hate, Fear That, In Truth, We Have Nothing Valuable To Say. When Your Writing Blooms Out Of The Back Of This Garbage Compost, It Is Very Stable. You Are Not Running From Anything. You Can Have A Sense Of Artistic Security. If You Are Not Afraid Of The Voices Inside You, You Will Not Fear The Critics Outside You.