Talking by phone from his home in the Seattle area, he says his focus for the workshop can be found in its title: The Art of the Sentence. “A lot of aspiring writers are all ready to write a novel, but they don’t know how to write sentences.
“Like that woman who wrote Fifty Shades of Crap,” he says, referring to E.L. James of Fifty Shades of Grey notoriety. “She has no more aptitude for writing good sentences than a cat has for swimming, but she’s purring and doing the backstroke all the way to the bank.”
It was autumn, the springtime of death. Rain spattered the rotting leaves, and a wild wind wailed. Death was singing in the shower. Death was happy to be alive. The fetus bailed out without a parachute. It landed in the sideline Astroturf, so upsetting the cheerleaders that for the remained of the afternoon their rahs were more like squeaks.
Tom Fucking Robbins, Still Life With Woodpecker (via mmesurly)