If the ink of my writing morphed into ants, would they march along with my thoughts? Would they find my work as enjoyable as a picnic? If the answer is no, I wouldn’t hesitate to stomp all over my writing.

“I need to drain the thermodynamic fluid from my bathos tub.”

“You’re disoriented. You just woke up. You’re in the future. You’ve been asleep …”

“If I’m going to write a book every American will want to read, it’s got to have…”

“It’s 3:32, and I need just one more ingredient to finish baking 3:33. Would you…”