i fear fiction. the thought of charactors taking control…it’s matrix-like. anarchy. and it will happen. once
in college, i wrote of small heroes. let them be who they were, grow hairy or mean or fleshy or fluid. but i never
let them do stuff. ever. i didn’t want to lose them. my charactors grew bountifully inside their cages. sentences
design their own shape. whether or not we intend to let them. when we sit down (or run or stand) to arrange whole thoughts, the ends stand tree like, nudging us
backwards, “out of doors”. they pour out like spores over the page in quiet insurrection. we think that we have written stones, but they stare back at us as sponges. the point
is to let them.
