My muse is very often, in my mind, a nagger. She nags me.

In some ways it is absurd for me to assert, counter to evidence, that I have not been writing.

Poetry has roots, and sometimes they are aerial. Sometimes they are buried.

If I could write a novel while I'm walking, I probably would.

Sometimes the taproot and the vines are far apart. Like English and the Asian poem.

"Time" does not mean "occasion."

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