Anything that manifests in the world must have some place in you.
Be open to billions of voices, he says from the podium, as the sign interpreter’s hands cool off, emit a line of smoke as they recoop from the rapidly epic story just told. Everything he is saying is sweeping my mind up from normal.
Long strings of yesses reel in agreeance. I could listen to authors, especially ones like this guy, talk all day.
He jokes that his writing is the kind that happens while forgetting there will be an audience. Then, when he finds himself in an auditorium reading his work aloud, the sudden realization of, “Omg, who wrote this shit?”
I want to have that kind of freedom. I want to chase after it like I mean it.
I want to be open to the billions of voices who summon me, plead with me, to write it all, everything, down, offering it to no one in particular but myself.