from Monique Proulx's The Heart Is An Involuntary Muscle
"Writers write. They build walls of words to shut out the clamor. Each word sends up shovelfuls of earth until the windows of ordinary life are covered over. And on they write, they burrow deep into words, they tunnel into their words until each one gives up its inviolable secret depth, sometimes pain, other times trance, it depends on their temperament, or their astrological sign. In those lonely, dark depths they lay out their imagination and begin polishing their creation.That's how those 300-page books of theirs come to be.That's how writers forget that there are people out there waiting at the other end of the tunnel. People willing to read their books, but who still hunger and thirst, who are afraid of dying without having known love. To those people, hungry for normal life, writers have nothing new to give, not a drop of water, not a brotherly embrace, nothing but words, the beautiful and frigid words of their subterranean domain."