I'm A Writer First And

I Think I Hate Snow, Downright Hate It. There Is Something Stupefying In It, A Kind Of 'you Must Be Worse Before You're Better,' And Down It Spins.

There Does Seem To Me Something Sad In Life. It Is Hard To Say What It Is. I Don't Mean The Sorrow That We All Know, Like Illness And Poverty And Death. No, It Is Something Different. It Is There, Deep Down, Deep Down, Part Of One, Like One's Breathing.

I Don't Believe Other People Are Ever As Foolishly Excited As I Am While I'm Working. How Could They Be? Writers Would Have To Live In Trees.

Ah, What Happiness It Is To Be With People Who All Are Happy, To Press Hands, Press Cheeks, Smile Into Eyes.

September Is Different From All Other Months. It Is More Magical. I Feel The Strange Chemical Change In The Earth Which Produces Mushrooms Is The Cause, Too, Of The Extra 'life' In The Air - A Resilience, A Sparkle.