The Way To My Heart Is Through

I Always Wince A Little Bit When I Send Me To Each Of My New Books. I Wince At Submitting Myself To My Father's Judgment. But, Of Course, He's Such A Fond Father That He Always Writes Back, Saying It's The Greatest Thing Ever Written.

This Is A Bad Story.” “sorry. I’m Really Sorry. I Shouldn’t Have Told You.” “no, You Should,” I Say. “but—” “i Don’t Want There To Be Bad Stories And Me Not Know Them.

Writing Stories Is My Way Of Scratching That Itch: My Escape From The Claustrophobia Of Individuality. It Lets Me, At Least For A While, Live More Than One Life, Walk More Than One Path. Reading, Of Course, Can Do The Same.

...sometimes I Suspect That What Had Really Happened Was That We Became More Resigned, More Cynical, Raised Our Pain Thresholds As We Lowered Our Expectations. All In All, Settled For Less.

Actually,the Nightmarish Thought Occurred To Me That With Electronic Delivery Of Books Becoming A Norm, Soon Writers May Be Expected To Provide Several Versions Of Their Book, Ranging From The Easy To The Complex, And Buyers Will Choose What They're In The Mood For With The Click Of A Button! I Do Hope Not.