The Rules Seem To Be These: If

Writers Turn Dreams Into Print.

The Rules Seem To Be These: If You Have Written A Successful Novel, Everyone Invites You To Write Short Stories. If You Have Written Some Good Short Stories, Everyone Wants You To Write A Novel. But Nobody Wants Anything Until You Have Already Proved Yourself By Being Published Somewhere Else.

About A Billion Years Ago, Long Before The Continents Had Separated To Define The Ancient Oceans, Or Their Own Outlines Had Been Determined, A Small Protuberance Jutted Out From The Northwest Corner Of What Would Later Become North America.

Only Another Writer, Someone Who Had Worked His Heart Out On A Good Book Which Sold Three Thousand Copies, Could Appreciate The Thrill That Overcame Me One April Morning In 1973 When Dean Rivers Of Our Small College In Georgia Appeared At My Classroom Door

I Wish I Could Tell You About The South Pacific. The Way It Actually Was. The Endless Ocean. The Infinite Specks Of Coral We Called Islands. Coconut Palms Nodding Gracefully Toward The Ocean. Reefs Upon Which Waves Broke Into Spray, And Inner Lagoons, Lovely Beyond Description. I Wish I Could Tell You About The Sweating Jungle, The Full Moon Rising Behind The Volcanoes, And The Waiting. The Waiting. The Timeless, Repetitive Waiting.