One Of These Days, Maybe...

My book will make a *best book* list. Maybe my Nano-Novel. Yeah. Uh-huh. In the meanwhile, it's neat to read what some consensus reality has deemed a list of best books.

Those Writers, They're Wacky

And here's the proof. If you believe everything you read.

Alternate Reality

The Grand Poobah's thought on a quote I sent him from Blood Orchid: An Unnatural History of America was that it put him in mind of a version of Connections as written by Chuck Palahniuk. I have to agree, with the addition that the main character would have to be building a pagoda of dead butterflies, cementing their bodies together with his own blood that he ritualistically drew every morning over a steaming cup of chai latte, letting the first couple of drops swirl redly around in the cup of human-flesh-toned liquid so that he, too, could consume the process of creation.

Yes, That

I've often been unable to fully articulate why I write, why I care so much about writing, why each letter is dust in my throat if I am unable to shape the words to draw forth my meaning... and I've been accused of taking it too seriously, of stifling my own creativity by caring too much. I don't buy that. Aitmatov said it perfectly, clear and succinct:

"The responsibility of a writer is to bring forth words that capture, through painful personal experience, people's suffering, pain, faith and hope. This is because a writer is charged with the mission of speaking on behalf of his fellow human beings. Everything that happens in the world is happening to me personally." --Chingiz Aitmatov

In Lieu Of...

...actually writing, I content myself to find others who write. More soon and later... but for now, this by David L. Ulin.