She sang songs for a while, softly, and listened to the cries of birds, unknown and unseen birds, off in the forest, retreating to their nests for the night, heads nestled under fold of wing, retiring into the simple harmless dreams of avian sleep. (A bird has no cerebrum.)
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The idea of narrative or fiction, the idea of creating verisimilitude based on characters and plot situations – completely hokey Victorian notion. The creative writing people are generally, you know, total, total hacks. You know, they are living in another, that are living in some previous century, or living in some previous planet. They’re still involved with this therapeutic, crappy ideology about letting students express their inner selves and these little epiphanies of lyric blubble, you know, I mean, it’s a joke, it’s a terrible joke.
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Bruce Andrews