Charles Bukowski
"What do you do? How do you write, create?" You don't, I told them. You don't try. That's very important: not to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It's like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks you make a pet out of it."
I need something to slap. There are a couple of topics to tackle but beyond that? Who knows. A man without a life is a man with nothing to write. Bukowski had his drudgery, I got shit.
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