The Act Of Composition Is A Series

I've Known Several Cases Of Writers Who Decide To Write About Something And They Research The Hell Out Of It And When They're Ready To Write, They Can't Move Because They Are So Burdened. I Start Writing. Whatever I Need Somehow Comes To Hand.

Planning To Write Is Not Writing. Outlining, Researching, Talking To People About What You're Doing - None Of That Is Writing. Writing Is Writing. Writing Is Like Driving At Night In The Fog. You Can Only See As Far As Your Headlights, But You Can Make The Whole Trip That Way.

Longing, The Hope For Fulfillment, Is The One Unwavering Passion Of The World's Commerce.

I Lived In New York For A Couple Months. It Seemed To Me At First An Incredibly Clean Place With Well-dressed People And Washed Cars And Bright-painted Red-and-yellow Streetcars And White Buildings.

I Knew He Was Unreliable, But He Was Fun To Be With. He Was A Child’s Ideal Companion, Full Of Surprises And Happy Animal Energy. He Enjoyed Food And Drink. He Liked To Try New Things. He Brought Home Coconuts, Papayas, Mangoes, And Urged Them On Our Reluctant Conservative Selves. On Sundays He Liked To Discover New Places, Take Us On Endless Bus Or Trolley Rides To Some New Park Or Beach He Knew About. He Always Counseled Daring, In Whatever Situation, The Courage To Test The Unknown, An Instruction That Was Thematically In Opposition To My Mother’s.