There Are Few Sights Sadder Than A

And Then Of Course The Music Sprang Up, Lousy Rock As Bold And Dull As A Giant Potato. "love This Song," Todd Said, Like It Was Unusually Brave To Like What Was Number One On The Radio.

...that's Not Why We Broke Up. I Love It, I Miss It, I Hate To Give It Back To You, This Complicated Thing, It's Why We Stayed Together

My Work Is Very Dear To Me, And Certainly I Have Had All The Emotional Highs And Lows That Go With Trying To Get It To An Audience. But I Do Have Some Kind Of Detachment That Seems Somewhat Unusual In My Trade. I'm A Writer Who Writes Every Day. I Don't Have A Period Of Months Where I Can't Get Anything Done And I Wander Around Tearing My Hair Out. When I Come Back From A Book Tour, For Instance, I Might Have One Day Where I Sleep Late And Then Check My E-mail, And Then Go For A Walk, And Then The Next Day I'm Really Itching To Get Back At Writing A Story.

One Of The Most Difficult Things To Think About In Life Is One’s Regrets. Something Will Happen To You, And You Will Do The Wrong Thing, And For Years Afterward You Will Wish You Had Done Something Different.

The Violins Waltzed. The Cellos And Basses Provided Accompaniment. The Violas Mourned Their Fate, While The Concertmaster Showed Off. The Flutes Did Bird Imitations…repeatedly, And The Reed Instruments Had The Good Taste To Admire My Jacket. The Trumpets Held A Parade In Honor Of Our Great Nation, While The French Horns Waxed Nostalgic About Something Or Other. The Trombones Had Too Much To Drink. The Percussion Beat The Band, And The Tuba Stayed Home Playing Cards With His Landlady, The Harp, Taking Sips Of Warm Milk A Blue Little Cup. “but The Composer Is Still Dead.