I could have written stories, fables, anecdotes, etc., like so many authors have. But when I am reading fiction, I often wish I knew what the author was really trying to say. I didn’t want a long distance runaround. Rather I wanted the plain and simple directions to the destination s/he had in mind. I don’t believe the genius is in the details, but in getting the message across. So I wrote down what I know, not what my imagination could spin or weave with it. I tried to be clear and to stay on the subject. I tried to be lyrical, heavy and familiar.
In this book, A Schizophrenic’s Notes, I often write about inner space, and the risks inherent to connecting with others, or of failing to connect with others, with our inner space. As much as I would have liked to have given the reader a handle or steering wheel to hold on to, that didn’t happen. I certainly don’t have a handle. One of my favorite lines in my writing is a Buddhist one, “The way that can be described isn’t the Way.”