I've Discovered That Rejections Are Not Altogether

Alternatives, And Particularly Desirable Alternatives, Grow Only On Imaginary Trees.

You Never Have To Change Anything You Got Up In The Middle Of The Night To Write.

The Sand Swallows Burst Out Of Their Scupper Holes In The Bluffs And Out Over The Transparent Drown Of The Water, Back Again To The White, To The Brown, To The Black, From Moving To Stock-still Sand Waves And Water-worked Woods And Roots That Hugged And Twisted In The Sun.

... Unless You Made Your Life A Turning Point, There Was No Reason For Existing.

You're All Alone When You're A Writer. Sometimes You Just Feel You Need A Humanity Bath. Even A Ride On The Subway Will Do That. But It's Much More Interesting To Talk About Books. After All, That's What Life Used To Be For Writers: They Talk Books, Politics, History, America. Nothing Has Replaced That.