My journals were a clearing house - a garbage can. Once I was writing seriously, I understood that this was the stuff that didn't belong in my work.

Michael Lowenthal has written a big-hearted and wise book about familial love in all its richness and complexity.

What was going on inside of me became louder because everything around me became quieter.

Writing well involves walking the path of most resistance. Sitting still, being patient, allowing the lunatic dream to take shape on the page, then the shaping, the pencil on the page, breathing, slowing down, being willing–no, more than willing, being wide open–to press the bruise until it blossoms.

In every generation there is a vault-keeper, one who guards the links fiercely and knows they are more precious than rubies.

If I waited to be in the mood to write, I'd barely have a chapbook of material to my name. Who would ever be in the mood to write? Do marathon runners get in the mood to run? Do teachers wake up with the urge to lecture? I don't know, but I doubt it. My guess is that it's the very act that is generative. The doing of the thing that makes possible the desire for it.

Music inspires me and puts me in the right mood, but to actually listen to it when I write - I find it gets in the way.