Every Man Or Woman Who

Too Often, In Novels That Are Speculative, God Is A Kind Of Kryptonite, And That's About All That It Is, And It Goes Back To Dracula, Where Someone Dumps A Crucifix In Count Dracula's Face, And He Pulls Away And Runs Back Into His House. That's Not Religion. That's Some Kind Of Juju, Like A Talisman.

Like Anything Else That Happens On Its Own, The Act Of Writing Is Beyond Currency. Money Is Great Stuff To Have, But When It Comes To The Act Of Creation, The Best Thing Is Not To Think Of Money Too Much. It Constipates The Whole Process.

The Bad Ideas Kind Of Just Drop Out Of The Mix. You Forget About Them. The Good Ones Stick Around.

Men! She Could Not Understand Why So Many Women Feared Them. Hadn't The Gods Made Them With The Most Vurnerable Part Of Their Guts Hanging Right Out Of Their Bodies, Like A Misplaced Bit Of Bowel? Kick Them There And They Curled Up Like Snails. Caress Them There And Their Brains Melted.

The Past Is Obdurate.