Very early in life I became fascinated with the wonders language can achieve. And I began playing with words.
Very early in life I became fascinated with the wonders language can achieve. And I began playing with words.
Look at what’s happening in this world. Every day there’s something exciting or disturbing to write about. With all that’s going on, how could I stop?
The unflattering reviews are painful for short periods of time; the badly written ones are deeply, deeply insulting. That reviewer took no time to really read the book.
To try to write love is to confront the muck of language: that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive and impoverished.
In the back of my mind was the constant hankering, almost yearning, to write but something always stopped me in my tracks. Or if I did find my way to put a pen to paper or finger on a keyboard I’d give up after a few minutes. I’d find other things to do: Anything but writing.
Substitute “damn” every time you’re inclined to write “very”; your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be.
I think I had actually served my apprenticeship as a writer of fiction by writing all those songs. I had already been through phases of autobiographical or experimental stuff.
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