It's No Secret That In

A Short Story Is Something That I Think Can Be Intuited And Envisioned And Held In Your Mind Almost At Once.

As I Drift Back Into Sleep, I Can't Help Thinking That It's A Wonderful Thing To Be Right About The World. To Weigh The Evidence, Always Incomplete, And Correctly Intuit The Whole, To See The World In A Grain Of Sand, To Recognize Its Beauty, Its Simplicity, Its Truth. It's As Close As We Get To God In This Life, And Reside In The Glow Of Such Brief Flashes Of Understanding, Fully Awake, Sometimes For Two Or Three Seconds, At Peace With Our Existence. And Then Back To Sleep We Go.

I Read Pretty Voraciously. If It's Good, I Don't Care What It Is.

When Authors Who Write Literary Fiction Begin To Write Screenplays, Everybody Assumes That's The End. Here's Another Who's Never Going To Write Well Again.

To Weigh And Evaluate A Vast Grid Of Information, Much Of It Meaningless, And To Arrive At Sensible, If Erroneous, Conclusions, Is A Skill Not To Be Sneezed At.