What else is soul but a listener?
It’s not the word made flesh we want in writing, in poetry and fiction, but the flesh made word
Words [are] more beautiful than a found fall leaf.
The speeding reader guts a book the way the skillful clean fish. The gills are gone, the tail, the scales, the fins; then the fillet slides away swifly as though fed to a seal.
I write because I hate. A lot. Hard.
Fiction becomes visual by becoming verbal