You drew me in with your serpent tongue, Dripping with saccharine sweet lies. You Infected my soul with your venom, And I believed in your poison. But your love was ...
The bigger the issue, the smaller you write. Remember that. You don’t write about the horrors of war. No. You write about a kid’s burnt socks lying on the road. You pick the smallest manageable part of the big thing, and you work off the resonance. — Richard Price
