In off the moors, down through the mist beams, god-cursed Grendel came greedily loping.
Don't be surprised if I demur, for, be advised my passport's green.
I always believed that whatever had to be written would somehow get itself written.
The main thing is to write for the joy of it. Cultivate a work-lust that imagines its haven like your hands at night dreaming the sun in the sunspot of a breast. You are fasted now, light-headed, dangerous. Take off from here.
Even if the last move did not succeed, the inner command says move again.
Once I was on the job, once I had got started, I felt safe enough, but the anticipation made me tense.