Living. Writing.

The more/ the better I live, the less interested I find I am in creating great monuments to myself through writing.
The pleasure of putting your words down and having them appreciated is "thin porridge" compared to the thrill of meeting another person soul-to-soul, and the satisfaction of living three-dimensionally. I started out writing because I couldn't make it any other way in life. One might as well be honest.
What do you have at the end of your life except love?
He did his thing? I've always done my thing, so I see no romance in it. After a while the perpetual gratification of oneself gets hollow and boring.

I started writing, as a child, to give fuller play to my imagination. I started sending it out, in my late teens, after the imaginative element of my writing had all but died, because I was skinny, disturbed, unloved--I wanted to be told I was brilliant.
I continue writing, now, because I've done it so long it's as necessary as breathing. But I don't hope for anything from it.
I said to a friend after Maureen's funeral, "The only ambition I haven't achieved in life is figuring out a way to be happy." It's true. I'm working on it, though. And the one thing I'm sure of is that it can only be done through the connections you make with other people, down in the world,
"on dark earth,
before we all go to Heaven."

The rest is the empty ravings of the Ego.

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