It is a common assumption that we humans (and certainly, we writers) feed upon other forms of life around us; that these various forms of life are there for our use. As I sit here wondering what to write next, I look out the window at early-summer’s countless hues and shapes of leaves, watch strangers walk by, hear the protective caws of crows around their nests. It’s then I’m reminded that all of life – without cease – is voraciously feeding upon me. That I’m a host for all narrative life forms to have their eating frenzies upon. Am bombarded by their appetite for my attention; my submission.

Writing, in fact, is a desperate act. When I give way to this – I encounter these hungry ones with an inventiveness that moves me (and them) beyond sheer survival.