Justice Can Span Years. Retribution Is Not

Writing Is A Demanding Profession And A Selfish One. And Because It Is Selfish And Demanding, Because It Is Compulsive And Exacting, I Didn't Embrace It. I Succumbed To It.

How Can You Put Out A Meaningful Drama When Every Fifteen Minutes Proceedings Are Interrupted By Twelve Dancing Rabbits With Toilet Paper? No Dramatic Art Form Should Be Dictated And Controlled By Men Whose Training And Instincts Are Cut Of An Entirely Different Cloth. The Fact Remains That These Gentlemen Sell Consumer Goods, Not An Art Form.

Why Do I Write? I Guess That's Been Asked Of Every Writer. I Don't Know. It Isn't Any Massive Compulsion.

The Writer's No Different. When He's Rejected, That Paper Is Rejected, In A Sense, A Sizeable Fragment Of The Writer Is Rejected As Well. It's A Piece Of Himself That's Being Turned Down.

Ideas Come From The Earth. They Come From Every Human Experience That You’ve Either Witnessed Or Have Heard About, Translated Into Your Brain In Your Own Sense Of Dialogue, In Your Own Language Form. Ideas Are Born From What Is Smelled, Heard, Seen, Experienced, Felt, Emotionalized. Ideas Are Probably In The Air, Like Little Tiny Items Of Ozone.