Small presses take chances. Chances are at the heart of all the literature we later know as great.

As for reality, I don't even have any interest in that word.

Failure: the renewable resource.

It seems like many people think that if you drive yourself crazy, then you can write. I’m absolutely not interested in that. It made sense to me to be as whole and well as I could be, and as happy. I wanted to see what a fortunate life would produce. What writing would come out of a mind that didn’t try to torment itself? What did I have to know? What did I have to do rather than what can I torment and bend myself into doing? What was the fruit on that tree?

Forgetting takes space./Forgotten matters displace/as much anything else as/anything else. We must/skirt unlabeled crates/as thought it made sense/and take them when we go/to other states.

Small presses take chances. Chances are at the heart of all the literature we later know as great.

What keeps me writing is that I can only know through writing. My major sense organ is apparently a pencil.