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December 11, 2013
Rare moment in which I touch on "craft":

Personal non-fiction is shaking itself out and falling into place, not clacking like Dominos or Pachinko, but more like a fluffy blanket floating over a bed and wafting down onto still-warm sheets fresh from the laundromat. I'm reverting to fiction, using a smooth, cool, well-rounded stainless steel spoon to dip into the chocolate mousse-like mass of my brain-nook. I will not dwell on how or what to write, but just do so without bogging myself down in unnecessary worry about what will result. The only thing that's NOT okay is creating nothing.