Where Was The Middle Ground Between A

I Don't Think There's A Shortage Of Material In The World. Or In My Head. I Just Pray For Continued Good Health, Because I've Got Other Stories To Tell.

I Told Him The Truth, That I Loved Him And Didn't Regret Anything About Our Lives Together. But Do We Ever 'tell The Truth, The Whole Truth, And Nothing But The Truth, So Help Me God' As My Father Used To Say, To Those We Love? Or Even To Ourselves? Don't Even The Best And Most Fortunate Of Lives Hint At Other Possibilities, At A Different Kind Of Sweetness And, Yes, Bitterness Too? Isn't This Why We Can't Help Feeling Cheated, Even When We Know We Haven't Been?

When I Start Getting Close To The End Of A Novel, Something Registers In The Back Of My Mind For The Next Novel, So That I Usually Don't Write, Or Take Notes. And I Certainly Don't Begin. I Just Allow Things To Percolate For A While.

I Suppose All Writers Worry About The Well Running Dry.

Which Is Why We Have Spouses And Children And Parents And Colleagues And Friends, Because Someone Has To Know Us Better Than We Know Ourselves. We Need Them To Tell Us. We Need Them To Say, "i Know You, Al. You Are Not The Kind Of Man Who.