Read more about A Psychoanalysis of Firearms
"We are going to study a problem that no one has managed to approach objectively, one in which the initial charm of the object is so strong that it still has the power to warp the minds of the clearest thinkers and to keep bringing them back to the poetic fold in which dreams replace thought and poems conceal theorems. This problem is the psychological problem posed by our convictions about fire. It seems to me so definitely psychological in nature that I do not hesitate to speak of a psychoanalysis of fire."
Some writers write about inspiration. I have ideas, but the writing itself? I couldn't pin down an inspiration for the life of me. The stuff drops off my fingertips. I'm not always sure where it comes from. Maybe it's in the wrist action.
I do have a couple of cautionary tales. Tales that tell me, don't worry about perfection. Just write the next word and keep going. Then go back and fix it. You don't want to be Joseph Grand or Larry Donner. Read more about Camus & Crystal
Couldn't sleep at all last night, and it's all because of history. Caught a little bit of Charlie Rose and a wonderful discussion of the Higgs bosun before drifting blissfully off, only to find myself awake at 2:30 or so. The episode of Sherlock Holmes then showing was a little too dramatic for sleep inducement, so I cruised a few channels looking for something interesting enough to keep my own thoughts at bay but soporific enough to send me back where I belonged, when I chanced upon this running on the other PBS station. Read more about Real People's History
My fellow critics at Writer's Cramp are constantly carping about what they see as a certain passivity in my fiction. Where's the tension? they keep asking. Where's the conflict? Why does she keep stopping to eat? Why doesn't she kick some ass?
I have begun responding (rather sulkily, I must admit), "Isn't there enough tension in the world? Don't we have enough conflict?" Read more about On Edge
When I fall in love with a name, I find myself walking around the house rolling that name around in my head, concocting an image of the one who bears it. One of those names that has found a place in my imagination for all the years since I first heard it is the unlikely name May Theilgaard Watts. Read more about Reading the Landscape
A new season of True Blood is almost upon us. My daughter introduced me to , the first of The Southern Vampire Mysteries, a few years back but, to tell the truth, although somewhat taken with it, I didn't get very much further. I can't recall a single spine-tingling moment. Not one scene made me think twice about fetching something from the storage shed in the backyard after dark. Read more about Vampyr
She closed the book, placed it on the table and, finally, decided to walk through the door. Rose glanced once again at the journal. It had been there when she entered the room, open to the page that could have been written just for her.
“I am going in there now. It’s time to tell John goodbye.”
Had her father died here?
Five years ago he had walked out of the house. His car, his clothes, his personal effects all left behind. Hospitals had been searched, accident reports examined, and morgues investigated. Nothing. Read more about I'm Sorry