I Don't Do A Lot Of Foisting,

I Knew That I Shouldn’t Have, But I Did It All The Same; And There You Have My Epitaph, Or One Of Them, Because My Grave Is Going To Require A Monument Inscribed On All Four Sides With Rueful Mottoes, In Small Characters, Set Close Together.

Rueful, Bittersweet, Funny, Written With Tenderness And Bite, Merrill Feitell's Stories, Like So Many Classic Short Stories, Are Made From The Plain And Painful Stuff Of This World, And Haunted By The Possibility, And The Impossibility, Of A Better One.

I’d Spent My Whole Life Waiting To Awake On An Ordinary Morning In The Town That Was Destined To Be My Home, In The Arms Of The Woman I Was Destined To Love, Knowing The People And Doing The Work That Would Make Up The Changing But Essentially Invariable Landscape Of My Particular Destiny.

You Need Three Things To Become A Successful Novelist: Talent, Luck And Discipline. Discipline Is The One Element Of Those Three Things That You Can Control, And So That Is The One That You Have To Focus On Controlling, And You Just Have To Hope And Trust In The Other Two.

Childhood, At Its Best, Is A Perpetual Adventure, In The Truest Sense Of That Overtaxed Word: A Setting Forth Into Trackless Lands That Might Have Come To Existence The Instant Before You First Laid Eyes On Them.