To create you must quiet your mind. You need a quiet mind so that ideas will have a chance of connecting.

An artist feels vulnerable to begin with; and yet the only answer is to recklessly discard more armour.

If we had the consciousness of a cat or a dog, we would have it in us to become perfect Zen masters. We could gnaw on a bone, take a nap, play with a spider until we killed it, get our litter just right, and be innocently and serenely present. Meaning would mean nothing to us, nor would we need it to mean anything. We would be free, and we would be spared. But, we are human beings, and we posses that odd duck – human consciousness.

A key to a long, productive writing life is finding ways to support that life, emotionally and existentially.

When you consciously decide to breathe more slowly and deeply, you alert your body to the fact that you want it to behave differently. You are not just changing your breathing pattern, you are making a full-body announcement that you are entering into a different relationship with your mind and your body.

You can sweat by not practicing or you can pick up your clarinet. There's good sweat and there's bad sweat.

Love is the spirit that motivates the artist's journey.