I Learned To Write Fiction

Tourette's Is Just One Big Lifetime Of Tag, Really. The World (or My Brain---same Thing) Appoints Me It, Again And Again. So I Tag Back. Can It Do Otherwise? If You've Ever Been It You Know The Answer.

In The Sea Of Words, The In Print Is Foam, Surf Bubbles Riding The Top. And It's A Dark Sea, And Deep, Where Divers Need Lights On Their Helmets And Would Perish At The Lower Depths.

Context Is Everything. Dress Me Up And See. I'm A Carnival Barker, An Auctioneer, A Downtown Performance Artist, A Speaker In Tongues, A Senator Drunk On Filibuster. I've Got Tourette's. My Mouth Won't Quit, Though Mostly I Whisper Or Subvocalize Like I'm Reading Aloud, My Adam's Apple Bobbing, Jaw Muscle Beating Like A Miniature Heart Under My Cheek, The Noise Suppressed, The Words Escaping Silently, Mere Ghosts Of Themselves, Husks Of Empty Breath And Tone.

I've Always Been Passionately In Love With Movies, To Such A Degree That Even As A Young Person Of About Nineteen Or Twenty I Thought Maybe I Would Try To Become A Film Director. The Reason I Didn't Do It Was Because I Felt I Didn't Have The Right Personality. At That Time In My Life, I Was Mortally Shy.

I Tend To Think Of Myself As A Highly Emotional Writer. It's All Coming Out Of The Deepest Feelings, Out Of Dreams, Out Of The Unconscious.