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You asked me why I write and the beer spoke for me well the beer and. Said because I don't know what to say so I write to try to find out. You said your grandmother reads books constantly works through them furiously and full of decision. You said she seeks consoling a release yes an escape in those words she reads you said quite rightly that you (or was it no writer) should look for no release from her demand. Her wish is your command and you fought for romances for mysteries for no lit snobbery I suppose. And yes. But this post does not want to be literary any more than a mystery than a romance. Is that true. Gertrude Stein told me to take out the commas.

I used to hold my writing tight to my chest make demands of it imagine futures for it the places we would go the heads who would bow down in front the many tears and the laughter but quiet laughter impelled by a quiet admiration. These were the dreams of wanting of desiring and these were the dreams that decided to accept structures preestablished boundaries a certain correct way and a means to get there. I doubt I have escaped even now. Schooled to treasure success above all else we are a nation of commas hesitation boundaries established lines even if those lines are drawn by pop culture MTV VH1 cable television Perez Hilton I'll try not to ramble. The writing emerges as words on the screen I'm happy to see them welcome them hold them love them and I think there is a spectrum between your grandmother's books and great literature and I'll survive if my writing does not appear there at all.






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