I'm Intrigued By How Ordinary

The Thing About Being A Writer Is That You Never Have To Ask, 'am I Doing Something That's Worthwhile?' Because Even If You Fail At It, You Know That It's Worth Doing.

I Grew Up In Mississippi Being Told It Was A Great Place, But Not Feeling That. When I Finally Began Reading Seriously, Literature Showed Me Something About Where I Was From Which Was Worthwhile.

With Imagination, You Can Put Something Where Nothing Was.

Someone Wanted Me To Write A Profile For Espn About The Commissioner Of Baseball, And I Said, "he's Just Some Suit! Some Republican. No!" I Mean If You Want Me To Write About Baseball, Boxing Or Football, I'll Write About Those Things Because I Watch Them, I Think About Them A Lot And I Like Them. But I Don't Want To Write About Barry Bonds.

Construed As Turf, Home Just Seems A Provisional Claim, A Designation You Make Upon A Place, Not One It Makes On You. A Certain Set Of Buildings, A Glimpsed, Smudged Window-view Across A Schoolyard, A Musty Aroma Sniffed Behind A Garage When You Were A Child, All Of Which Come Crowding In Upon Your Latter-day Senses -- Those Are Pungent Things And Vivid, Even Consoling. But To Me They Are Also Inert And Nostalgic And Unlikely To Connect You To The Real, To That Essence Art Can Sometimes Achieve, Which Is Permanence.