The Writer's No Different. When He's Rejected,

For The Record, Prejudices Can Kill, And Suspicion Can Destroy, And A Thoughtless Frightened Search For A Scapegoat Has A Fallout All Its Own For The Children, And The Children Yet Unborn. And The Pity Of It Is That These Things Cannot Be Confined To The Twilight Zone.

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.

I Find Dictating In The Mass Media Particularly Good Because You're Writing For Voice Anyway; You're Writing For People To Say A Line And, Consequently, Saying A Line Through A Machine Is Quite A Valid Test For The Validity Of What You're Saying.

Apparently On The Screen I Look Tall, Ageless, And Damned Close To Omniscient-delivering Jeopardy-laden Warnings Through Gritted Teeth. But When People See Me On The Street, They Say 'by God, This Kid Is 5 Foot 5, He's Got A Broken Nose, And Looks About As Foreboding As A Bank Teller On A Lunch Break.'

It May Be Said With A Degree Of Assurance That Not Everything That Meets The Eye Is As It Appears.