Fiction Writing Feels More Honest To Me.

You, Me, & Your Papa Are 3 Of The Tiny Percentage Of Souls On This Miserable Earth Who've Figured Out That Playing Ball Is The Highest Purpose God Ever Invented The Human Male Body For.

At Last The Cold Crept Up My Spine; At Last It Filled Me From Foot To Head; At Last I Grew So Chill And Desolate That All Thought And Pain And Awareness Came To A Standstill. I Wasn't Miserable Anymore: I Wasn't Anything At All. I Was A Nothing-- A Random Configuration Of Molecules. If My Heart Still Beat I Didn't Know It. I Was Aware Of One Thing Only; Next To The Gaping Fact Called Death, All I Knew Was Nothing, All I Did Meant Nothing, All I Felt Conveyed Nothing. This Was No Passing Thought. It Was A Gnawing, Palpable Emptiness More Real Than The Cold.

To Me, It's A Great Day Every Time I Receive A Letter From Somebody Who Climbed Inside One Of My Books, Inhabited It For A While, Learned A Little Something, And Emerged Grateful.

... The Best Way To Strip The Allure And Dreaminess From A Lifelong Dream Is, Very Often, Simply To Have It Come True.

The Bad Thing About Falling Into Pieces Is That It Hurts. The Good Thing About It Is That Once You're Lying There In Shards You've Got Nothing Left To Protect, And So Have No Reason Not To Be Honest