The Trouble With Writing Fiction Is That

I'm A Devoted Husband. That Must Strike You As Totally Deviant.

If You Have Any Helpful Suggestions I'd Be Pleased To Hear Them. If All You Can Do Is Make Snide Insinuations Then It Would Probably Benefit All Concerned If You Bestowed The Fruits Of Your Prodigious Wit On Someone With The Spare Time To Give Them The Consideration They Doubtless Deserve.

But It Was Pointless, It Was Stupid; He Thought About Thoughtless Things. If I Were A Seabird . . . But How Could You Be A Seabird? If You Were A Seabird Your Brain Would Be Tiny And Stupid And You Would Love Half-rotted Fish Guts And Tweaking The Eyes Out Of Little Grazing Animals; You Would Know No Poetry And You Could Never Appreciate Flying As Fully As The Human On The Ground Yearning To Be You. If You Wanted To Be A Seabird You Deserved To Be One.

As A Writer, You Get To Play, You Get Alter Time, You Get To Come Up With The Smart Lines And The Clever Comebacks You Wish You'd Thought Of.

The Combination Of Modern Ordnance And Outdated Tactics Had, As Usual, Created Enormous Casualties On Both Sides.