Fiction Writing Feels More Honest To Me.

I'd Taken A Big Fat Crisis Off My Shoulders And Loaded It All On Jesus, Which Seemed Unfair In A Way, But Was Exactly What The Bible Recommended.

But Churches Always Have Been The Leading Cause Of The Need For Churches.

And So I Learned What Solitude Really Was. It Was Raw Material - Awesome, Malleable,older Than Men Or Worlds Or Water. And It Was Merciless - For It Let A Man Become Precisely What He Alone Made Of Himself.

At Last The Cold Crept Up My Spine; At Last It Filled Me From Foot To Head; At Last I Grew So Chill And Desolate That All Thought And Pain And Awareness Came To A Standstill. I Wasn't Miserable Anymore: I Wasn't Anything At All. I Was A Nothing-- A Random Configuration Of Molecules. If My Heart Still Beat I Didn't Know It. I Was Aware Of One Thing Only; Next To The Gaping Fact Called Death, All I Knew Was Nothing, All I Did Meant Nothing, All I Felt Conveyed Nothing. This Was No Passing Thought. It Was A Gnawing, Palpable Emptiness More Real Than The Cold.

My Books Are Inert As Cordwood Till A Readers Imagination Ignites One And An Old Flame Jumps To Life.