It Was The Silent Time

I Have Never Thought Of Myself As A Good Writer. Anyone Who Wants Reassurance Of That Should Read One Of My First Drafts. But I'm One Of The World's Great Rewriters.

The Master In The Art Of Living Makes Little Distinction Between His Work And His Play, His Labor And His Leisure, His Mind And His Body, His Information And His Recreation, His Love And His Religion. He Hardly Knows Which Is Which. He Simply Pursues His Vision Of Excellence At Whatever He Does, Leaving Others To Decide Whether He Is Working Or Playing. To Him He's Always Doing Both.

Millions Upon Millions Of Years Ago, When The Continents Were Already Formed And The Principal Features Of The Earth Had Been Decided, There Existed, Then As Now, One Aspect Of The World That Dwarfed All Other ... A Mighty Ocean, Resting Uneasily To The East Of The Largest Continent, A Restless Ever-changing, Gigantic Body Of Water That Would Later Be Described As Pacific.

I Had Learned Volleyball In The Navy, Where All The Captains And Admirals Wanted To Be Spikers, And I Found Then That A Man Who Can Subdue His Own Desires And Master The Art Of Serving Others Can Make Himself Invaluable. In Choosing Sides The Team Captain Always Chose The Good Spikers On The First And Second Choice, But Then The Spikers Would Grab His Arm And Whisper, 'take Michener.' I Was Never Chosen Lower Than Third, Because I Was Needed. I Wasn't Good, But I Was Faithful.

I Am Always Interested In Why Young People Become Writers, And From Talking With Many I Have Concluded That Most Do Not Want To Be Writers Working Eight And Ten Hours A Day And Accomplishing Little; They Want To Have Been Writers, Garnering The Rewards Of Having Completed A Best-seller. They Aspire To The Rewards Of Writing But Not To The Travail.