If we nurture our creative “weirdness,” does it make us weird(er) in general?
If we continue to push and mold language a la Joyce/Beckett/Butler/Lovelace do we devalue or add value to the English language (as opposed to literature) as we know it?
Do we choose what to write about or does it choose us?
How much faster will my eyesight deteriorate because I read so much online?
Why would a writer submit to a magazine and tell the editor that their work probably isn’t a good fit for the magazine, but they thought they’d enjoy the read?
If I write the wish onto my vision board, will someday PANK or Keyhole or Coop Renner publish, and design/paint the cover for, my (chap)book?
Will the next generation write solely in text shorthand/tweets?
If we are what we repeatedly do (Aristotle) why aren’t we all food, or worse?
Why am I blogging more these days than writing/living?
For those of you who’ve wondered: I am real. I do dislike a LOT of writing. Why put my energy there?
If I’m a pacifist, why do I think there should be more golf club-wielding women in the world a la Elin Nordegren?
Why, oh why, can’t we touch the sky? Just once.