I Took A Little Celebrational Nap.

In Almost Every Thriller, A Point Is Reached When Someone, Usually Calling From A Phone Booth, Telephones With A Vital Piece Of Information, Which He Cannot Divulge By Phone. By The Time The Hero Arrives At The Place Where They Had Arranged To Meet, The Caller Is Dead, Or Too Near Death To Tell. There Is Never An Explanation For The Reluctance Of The Caller To Impart His Message In The First Place.

Most Movies Are Not Very Good. Most People Know It And Like To See Them Anyway.

My Dislike Has No Consequences. It Accrues Only In My Mind—like Preserves On A Shelf Or Guns Zeroing In, And Never Firing.

Speech, Tennis, Music, Skiing, Manners, Love- You Try Them Waking And Perhaps Balk At The Jump, And Then You're Over. You've Caught The Rhythm Of Them Once And For All, In Your Sleep At Night. The City, Of Course, Can Wreck It. So Much Insomnia. So Many Rhythms Collide. The Salesgirl, The Landlord, The Guests, The Bystanders, Sixteen Varieties Of Social Circumstance In A Day. Everyone Has The Power To Call Your Whole Life Into Question Here. Too Many People Have Access To Your State Of Mind. Some People Are Indifferent To Dislike, Even Relish It. Hardly Anyone I Know.

That 'writers Write' Is Meant To Be Self-evident. People Like To Say It. I Find It Is Hardly Ever True. Writers Drink. Writers Rant. Writers Phone. Writers Sleep. I Have Met Very Few Writers Who Write At All.