Reading through the proof of Under the Poppy on this really very warm late afternoon: watching a manuscript, a story, become a book is always a satisfying process, but never more so than with this story.

I’ve lately had/heard/read through a lot of conversations and disquisitions with other writers and artists (and I mean a lot: it must be very much on the collective creative mind) about creating for the market, and after all the arguments one can honestly conclude that what’s made in love, for love, tastes sweetest and lasts longest.  This is no question of what’s “hot” or popular or literary or whatever-have-you: it takes no notice of commerce: it’s Lewis Hyde territory and is really no “question” at all.  Love of the making and love of what’s made is how we make art: that’s my best understanding of the process.

Love, note, does not connote softness.  Love is the most tensile and ferocious substance there is.

The eventual readers of Under the Poppy, whether they like the story or do not, will still know, I hope, that I loved the doing and the making, word by word by word, and page by page.