I’ve written easily more than 100,000 words since I got out here August 4. That’s a novel right there. On too many subjects, of course, too wildly disparate, but starting to coalesce into a sort of creative cleansing. When I submitted a long story two nights ago to a writing forum and titled it “Autistic Dreaming & Fast Forwarding in Versailles,” something clicked: that I am shouting for self-definition in an infant language and that my voice is elaborating the frustrations of every imagination which has ever been, and which is not mature enough for proper presentation. But isn’t that what extending the boundaries of literature is all about? Some people have responded with “Doesn’t make sense, even though you seem to have something here,” while others have responded “Wheeeeee.” And I look at the difference in the respondents and concentrate on the Wheeeeeeees, and suddenly I know exactly what I am doing. Some people are trapped by definition, and some people are trying to escape. Period. What can I say to lead the break out?