It stands to reason that the writer cannot write as he might want to, every day.  The mind is drawn away by real and serious things, and when touched by duties, the voice turns inward, quieting down, back to the root.  A writer is a writer through being the human being, through suffering, through experiences of all kinds in all ways.  That which is cause for silence of the pen and word is the same as that which is the source of the flourishing, the rebirth.  The winter of worry and cold examinations and wind will turn again, and again, into the spring.  The writing is created, an organic thing.  It can only come through us, without so much of our own management;  otherwise it would always flow, and only be a thing of commerce, which it cannot ultimately be.


After the long trip, the continuing thought, upon the sensitivity, the dexterity, the rich emotional life, that which gets less notice in the mass culture, in the hyper masculine culture, in the culture of communications bought and sold, as if to be bought and sold were the main purpose of that which is dredged up as thoughts put into words...

There are the rough-hewn originals, which serve to guide the way, seeds planted.  And then there are the newer takes, necessary for their freshness, to bring the original heirlooms back to the market to see the light of day again, alive, vibrant, fresh and ripening.

There is the Old Testament, and all the stories thereof.  And then there is the New, and the stories therein, as well, each with a hint of reinterpretation, of explanation, explication, a re-expressing.

Do not covet another man's wife.  That will become an understanding of the sin of visual adultery, envisioned adultery, simulated just so as the best of technologies allow...

Oh, that does not apply to me, one says.  And then you see that it does.