It's Lovely. I Hate It.

I Never Know Where I Am Going, Though. That Is Part Of What Makes It So Wonderful. And After All, Who Does?

At An Early School, When I Was About 5, They Asked What We Wanted To Be When We Grew Up. Everyone Said Silly Things, And I Said I Wanted To Be An Actress. So That Was What I Wanted To Be, But What I Was, Of Course, Was A Writer.

It Was Not Apathy. It Was An Intelligent Disinterest In Those Things That Could Have No Bearing On One's Existence.

I Submitted Manuscripts To Publishers. This Was Not So Much A Feeling That I Should Be Published As A Wish To Escape The Feared And Hated Drudgery Of Normal Work.

I Must Suppose That Reading Wonderful Writers May, Inadvertently, Teach An Avid Reader A Great Deal -- Not Only About Life And Other Matters, But About How To Write. Therefore Doubtless I Have Benefited From Frequent Immersions In The Glowing Genius Of Others. It Would Be Nice To Think So. (i Do Actually Think So). But To Improve My Skills Will Never Be The Prompting Force Of My Reading -- That's Just Literary Lust.