I Like Grit, I Like Love And

I Used To Get Criticized For Putting Food In Novels.

No One Else Can Hold Your Hand Or Take This Voyage Of The Soul For You.

This Infantile Sense Of Order Tended To Infect My Life At Large. Up At 5:30 A.m., Coffee, Oatmeal, Perhaps Sausage (homemade), And Fresh Eggs Giving One Of The Yolks To Lola. Listening To Npr And Grieving More Recently Over The Absence Of Bob Edwards Who Was The Sound Of Morning As Surely As Birds. Reading A Paragraph Or Two Of Emerson Or Loren Eiseley To Raise The Level Of My Thinking. Going Out To Feed The Cattle If It Was During Our Six Months Of Bad Weather.

Strangely, When I Totally Emerged From This Slump I Couldn't Comprehend How I Had Almost Drowned It It.

I Wonder, When A Writer's Blocked And Doesn't Have Any Resources To Pull Himself Out Of It, Why Doesn't He Jump In His Car And Drive Around The U.s.a.? I Went Last Winter For Seven Thousand Miles And It Was Lovely. Inexpensive, Too.