I'm Weary Of The Battle.

As Much As There Is Joy In Writing, There's Always The Little Bit Of Terror To Keep You On Edge, On Your Toes. It Is A Strange Way To Occupy Yourself - To Enjoy Your Life On A Daily Basis. There Is No Guarantee That Something Great Is Going To Come Next.

There Are Moments That Stop The Heart, That Catch The Breath, That Halt The Beat Of Blood In Your Veins, And You Are Suspended In Time, Held Between Life And Death, And You Wait For Something To Bring You Back Again.

You Hope That People Read Your Book And Say "yes, This Is The Way It Is Or Could Be." But Then You Have No Way Of Knowing Until The Reader Reads The Book. Actually, The Critical Response Doesn't Worry Me. I've Had Very Few Reviews That Have Upset Me.

He Was Intrigued By The Power Of Words, Not The Literary Words That Filled The Books In The Library But The Sharp, Staccato Words That Went Into The Writing Of News Stories. Words That Went For The Jugular. Active Verbs That Danced And Raced On The Page.

He Hated To Think Of His Own Life Stretching Ahead Of Him That Way, A Long Succession Of Days And Nights That Were Fine - Not Good, Not Bad, Not Great, Not Lousy, Not Exciting, Not Anything.