Neil Gaiman Looked Into my Eyes and Saw my Soul

The first time I saw Neil Gaiman speak was  when he was on tour for the tenth anniversary and reprinting (in hardcover) of American Gods. I got there forty minutes before he was supposed to speak and the line was around the block. He spoke in a church and I had to sit in the furthermost pews in the top of a balcony. (Yes, how very goth, but what do you expect from the author of the Sandman graphic novels, Neverwhere, and The Graveyard Book?) This time he was speaking at the A.C.T. Theatre and it was sold out, 1000 seats! I got there two hours early and procured a great seat.

Howling with Allen Ginsberg

As you read Allen Ginsberg‘s Howl, it carves out a little pocket in your brain and heart and lives there forever. He is one of those poets you imagine being friends with. His friendships with fellow Beat writers are legendary. Through decades and different countries, his very public relationship with Peter Orlovsky is inspiring.

Written in 1955, this big poem, in this little book changed the course of poetry, literature, and free speech as we know it. Part of City Lights’ Pocket Poets Series, it’s meant to fit into one’s pocket so that one will never be without poetry.

Scott used to invite friends over to read Ginsberg’s poetry as a group.

Orson Scott Card: Breaking my Heart

What do you do when you love a writer but disagree or detest his personal choices and beliefs? When I was younger, a friend handed me Henry Miller. I was immediately seduced by his passion for life and his fast-paced language. He described everything with such joy and humor. He lived life to the fullest. This included using money his wife sent him to visit prostitutes. I was 18, and grew up a fundamentalist Christian. Paying women for sex was wrong. Cheating on your wife was wrong. Not having a 9-5 job was wrong. . . . There was a lot of wrong stuff happening in Tropic of Cancer. But I loved him and learned to separate him from his writing (which was tricky as a lot of his stuff is confessionalist.) But also, I was still brainwashed with these antiquated notions of what was right and wrong. Bukowski was another one. Dirty old man writing about drinking, women, gambling. But as I matured as a person and a reader I realized you could separate the artist from the art.