Writing Is A Holy Chore.

I Was The Green Monkey, The Pariah. And I Had No Friends. Not Just A Few Friends, Or One Good Friend, Or Grudging Acceptance By Other Misfits And Outcasts. I Was Alone. All Stinking Alone, Without Even An Imaginary Playmate.

I Made As Many Mistakes As Anybody Else. I Sound As If I'm An Egomaniac, And I Suppose In Some Ways I'm Filled With Hubris Because I Know How Good I Am At Certain Things. But Other Things, I Can't Do At All. I Can't Draw.

The Ability To Dream Is All I Have To Give. That Is My Responsibility; That Is My Burden. And Even I Grow Tired.

I Can't Picture In My Mind Three Hundred And Sixty Thousand Dollars... When I Think Of It, All I Can See In My Mind Is A Big Nickel.

It Is Not Merely Enough To Love Literature If One Wishes To Spend One's Life As A Writer. It Is A Dangerous Undertaking On The Most Primitive Level. For, It Seems To Me, The Act Of Writing With Serious Intent Involves Enormous Personal Risk. It Entails The Ongoing Courage For Self-discovery. It Means One Will Walk Forever On The Tightrope, With Each New Step Presenting The Possiblity Of Learning A Truth About Oneself That Is Too Terrible To Bear.