Good Books Are For Consideration After, Too.

We Don't Know The Days That Will Change Our Lives. Probably Just As Well.

How Do We Remember To Remember? That's A Question I've Asked Myself Often Since My Time On Duma Key, Often In The Small Hours Of The Morning, Looking Up Into The Absence Of Light, Remembering Absent Friends. Sometimes In Those Little Hours I Think About The Horizon. You Have To Establish The Horizon. You Have To Mark The White. A Simple Enough Act, You Might Say, But Any Act That Re-makes The World Is Heroic. Or So I've Come To Believe.

Kindle, Isn’t It?” The Waitress Asked. “i Got One For Christmas, And I Love It. I’m Reading My Way Through All Of Jodi Picoult’s Books.” “oh, Probably Not All Of Them,” Wesley Said. “huh? Why Not?” “she’s Probably Got Another One Done Already. That’s All I Meant.” “and James Patterson’s Probably Written One Since He Got Up This Morning!” She Said, And Went Off Chortling.

Mrs. Cole Was A Perfect Democrat. She Hated All Kids Equally.

Part Of My Function As A Writer Is To Dream Awake. And That Usually Happens. If I Sit Down To Write In The Morning, In The Beginning Of That Writing Session And The Ending Of That Session, I'm Aware That I'm Writing. I'm Aware Of My Surroundings. It's Like Shallow Sleep On Both Ends, When You Go To Bed And When You Wake Up. But In The Middle, The World Is Gone And I'm Able To See Better.