Any Fool Can Write A Novel But

So He Left The Lagoon And Entered The Jungle Again, Within A Few Days Was Completely Lost, Following The Lagoons Southward Through The Increasing Rain And Heat, Attacked By Alligators And Giant Bats, A Second Adam Searching For The Forgotten Paradises Of The Reborn Sun.

Memories Have Huge Staying Power, But Like Dreams, They Thrive In The Dark, Surviving For Decades In The Deep Waters Of Our Minds Like Shipwrecks On The Sea Bed.

Writing A Novel Is One Of Those Modern Rites Of Passage, I Think, That Lead Us From An Innocent World Of Contentment, Drunkenness, And Good Humor, To A State Of Chronic Edginess And The Perpetual Scanning Of Bank Statements.

I Take For Granted That For The Imaginative Writer, The Exercise Of The Imagination Is Part Of The Basic Process Of Coping With Reality, Just As Actors Need To Act All The Time To Make Up For Some Deficiency In Their Sense Of Themselves.

Even One's Own Home Is A Kind Of Anthology Of Advertisers, Manufacturers, Motifs And Presentation Techniques. There's Nothing 'natural' About One's Home These Days. The Furnishings, The Fabrics, The Furniture, The Appliances, The Tv, And All The Electronic Equipment - We're Living Inside Commercials.