No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
The next town was small, slow, and quiet. The skyline was bare and only steeples broke its plane. There was no traffic. The people were mostly older and paid little heed to William as he followed along the storefronts. He came to an alleyway behind a strip of restaurants where two older men sat on food crates. Cut jean shorts, yellowed tank tops. They looked up at him and then one of them waved him over. “Do you have a extra cigarette?” asked the man.
...My preferred setting is solitude and silence and a room free of ornamentation and distraction. Sometimes I write at a desk. Sometimes, on the couch. Or in bed....
skill in writing surfaces early
Midnight came and the beach had light from a cut of moon...
Imagine a 3.5 to 4 year-old kid in North Las Vegas Nevada, 1967 and ’68, trying like hell to figure out the airship, kooky characters…and hey, what’s a diamond…?!
Readers operate under precedent. What you have read before causes a spin towards what you are reading now. Universality might be what you should read now.