I am in love with my pen and the words it writes. I write because I see. I write what I see, so I must love my eyes as well. I once thought of the well of inspiration as a body of water whose dam was never meant to hold it back. Rather, it is the discipline to control the flow lest it flood and be spent. Writers need more than imagination; they need life experience. Without knowing how life flows, and that one cannot merely dangle their toes in the stream, but swim in the current, imagination has no fuel to flourish. I write because I love people, I love history and I love language. The three are inseparable and no successful writing is accomplished without paying dues to all three. As long as I stay in the flow, the pen will stay in my hand.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010



Before I Sleep by Richard Cheney [fiction]

Who is the tormented Dr. Icarus Huxley, paranormal psychiatrist? Why did Alice Rhule, the intelligent, irreverent, lovely and loney mistress of a thousand-acre island estate fall in love with him? Who murdered Alice? Haunting visions surround Huxley, the prime suspect: a cloister of white marble on a hilltop in the island forest; a terrifying horned beast, both bull and man which inhabits a labyrinth of unholy creation; the spirit of Alice with new-found powers to delight, seduce and destroy. The captivating and ultimately captured spectre of Alice struggles with her fascination with Huxley and the bitterness of his apparent betrayal. The living and dead conspire to overcome Huxley's tenuous preternatural control. There will be no washing of this stain. Let the rain wash it. Let the wind blow it away. Let the earth take it to itself by its own means. And if it is never taken, never washed clean, let it be there to meet the quick and the dead at God's pleasing bar to plead for its innocence.

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