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August 24, 2002
I don’t believe in reincarnation, that bad/good karma controls a future destiny. If I did, I imagine the hells that await writers with bad karma are future careers as Hallmark writers. I imagine a born-again Dostoevsky, punished for vodka-driven excesses of his former life, trapped in a 15th floor Manhattan office drafting overly sentimental mush for a picture of a dew-covered rose next to the feet of a newborn baby. I imagine him not grasping for the phrases to polish off a soul-searing portrait of human essence, but rather trying to find yet another rhyming phrase for “I love you.”