After Fifty Shades of Grey, I think my writing is pretty tame, isn't it?

John Milton famously claimed, "Fame is the spur" for the poet, and indeed when we consider the six years he spent writing Paradise Lost, and the additional years revising it, from 1664 to 1674, we may allow that spur.

I have a muse who's very powerful, but I'm still a hopeless deadbeat of a poet.

I'm in my 60s, and a cancer scare just makes you more aware of mortality.

Signs of a maddening system of writing and counting that calibrates the values of something the poet does not yet know. Praxis is therefore poetics.

When someone asks me now, "What do you do?" I will be able to say, "I am a writer."

The things that I dislike passionately, I have come to realize, are also part of me.