Reason

You might not get why I write.

I do. I write because Newton was a better poet than Wordsworth; because Shakespeare teaches us more about psychology than Freud. Because Picasso created more wealth than Microsoft, I write.

It seems unimportant. The lines between dreams are easily crossed – more so when people have only one fantasy. Salespeople stay in business. Doctors stay in biology. Painters stay in art. But the lines between disciplines, the distinctions between a cartoonist's dream and a chemist's, can be crossed like a blond over double yellows by a person with adequate typing skills and decent wit.

It is important. Musicians need to money and live, economists need to study the pieces that make up our brains & the reasons our brains make pieces of art, and scientists need to stop avoiding an open dissection of creation & industry... and why they can't get dates.

I write because four billion people believe an invisible force is trapped inside our biological skins awaiting a release foretold by ancient Middle Eastern prophets.

Good luck. Start.

An author's job is to recount with painless precision the sights he pains himself to see. If I've seen a single thing in my life it's a community of folks, needing only a drop more organization to get along beautifully well. I write because sometimes we forget the drop.

The drop is understanding all walks of life – from personifying a deep spiritual humility to concocting different flavor combination of Skittles. A wise man said, it has been noted more than once, life without Skittles would be no more than theoreticall mumbo jumbo. Perhaps more importantly, a lame man once said life without Skittles would be fruitless – if either are wrong, I may not impossibly die of diabetes.