Everybody Sins, Francis. The Terrible Thing Is

It Came To Me That Hell Would Not Be Fire And Smoke After All But Arctic, Everything White And Frigid. Hell Would Be Not Anger But Indifference.

It Would Be The Death Of All Creativity For Me If I Had To Sit There And Be Concerned With The Sensibilities Of A Fourteen-year-old Kid. Some Fourteen-year-olds Would Revel In The Book, And Some Would Be Very Sensitive To It, So You Can't Afford To Worry About That. What I Worry About Is Good Taste And Getting My Message Across By Whatever Means I Can.

You Have To Accept The Critical Reviews If They Treat You With Respect. Actually, It's One Person's Opinion. So, It's A Concern But Not An Overriding One, And I Don't Stay Up Nights Worrying About Reviews. But There Are Certain People I Respect Who I Hope Will Like A Book.

Writing, Even Though It's Hard Work, Is Really A Joy When You Get These Characters To Come Alive. It's Hard To Trace Where They Come From. I Can't Say That I Am Sitting Here One Night At Nine O'clock And That A Character Occurs To Me. The Magic For Me Happens At The Typewriter.

I'm Always Telling Myself As I Write That I'm Not Really Writing A Novel; I'm Just Going To Fool Around With A Character Or An Idea.