Woke up this morning with a terrific urge to lie in bed all day and read.
Booze takes a lot of time and effort if you're going to do a good job with it.
There are significant moments in everyone's day that can make literature. That's what you ought to write about.
There was a time when I thought I loved my first wife more than life itself. But now I hate her guts. I do. How do you explain that? What happened to that love? What happened to it, is what I'd like to know. I wish someone could tell me.
I've crossed some kind of invisible line. I feel as if I've come to a place I never thought I'd have to come to. And I don't know how I got here. It's a strange place. It's a place where a little harmless dreaming and then some sleepy, early-morning talk has led me into considerations of death and annihilation.
But I can hardly sit still. I keep fidgeting, crossing one leg and then the other. I feel like I could throw off sparks, or break a window--maybe rearrange all the furniture.
The places where water comes together with other water. Those places stand out in my mind like holy places.
I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone's heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark.
It's possible, in a poem or short story, to write about commonplace things and objects using commonplace but precise language, and to endow those things—a chair, a window curtain, a fork, a stone, a woman's earring—with immense, even startling power.
there isn't enough of anything as long as we live. But at intervals a sweetness appears and, given a chance prevails.
Last Update: 6 February 2023
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