Remember The Movements That Don't

In The Deepest Places, Where Physical Norms Collapse Under The Crushing Water, Bodies Still Fall Softly Through The Dark, Days After Their Vessels Have Capsized. They Decay On Their Long Journey Down. Nothing Will Hit The Black Sand At The Bottom Of The World But Algae-covered Bones.

Word Spread Because Word Will Spread. Stories And Secrets Fight, Stories Win, Shed New Secrets, Which New Stories Fight, And On.

Kraken' Is A Very Undisciplined Book. That's A Gamble. If It Doesn't Come Off, It's Disastrous. But There Are Pleasures, I Think, To A Meandering Lack Of Discipline That You Can't Get The Other Way, And Vice Versa.

When I'm Writing A Book, Generally I Start With The Mood And Setting, Along With A Couple Of Specific Images—things That Have Come Into My Head, Totally Abstracted From Any Narrative, That I've Fixated On. After That, I Construct A World, Or An Area, Into Which That General Setting, That Atmosphere, And The Specific Images I've Focused On Can Fit.

We Would Never Call Inexplicable Little Insights Hunches, For Fear Of Drawing The Universe's Attention. But They Happened, And You Knew You Had Been In The Proximity Of One That Had Come Through If You Saw A Detective Kiss His Or Her Fingers And Touch His Or Her Chest Where A Pendant To Warsha, Patron Saint Of Inexplicable Inspirations, Would, Theoretically, Hang.