Get a day job, make your money from that, and write to please yourself.

I usually say I write for the smartest, cleverest, wittiest audience I know, and that's me.

Y is for YGGDRASIL. The legendary Nordic ash tree with its three roots extending into the lands of mortals, giants, and Niflheim, the land of mist, grows in Wisconsin. Legend has it that when the tree falls, the universe will fall. Next Wednesday, the State Highway Commission comes through that empty pasture with a freeway.

Perfection. Excellence. What a passionate lover. But once having tasted the lips of excellence, once having given oneself to its perfection, how dreary and burdensome and filled with anomie are the remainder of one's waking hours trapped in the shackled lock-step of the merely ordinary, the barely acceptable, the just okay and not a stroke better.

I will live to piss in the open mouths or the open graves of my enemies, whichever comes first.

The trick is not becoming a writer. The trick is staying a writer.

When belief in a god dies, the god dies.