Before You Quit, You Have To Try

Fish," He Said, "i Love You And Respect You Very Much. But I Will Kill You Dead Before This Day Ends.

I Decided That I Would Write One Story About Each Thing That I Knew About.

Each Day Of Not Writing, Of Comfort, Of Being That Which He Despised, Dulled His Ability And Softened His Will To Work So That, Finally, He Did No Work At All.

Worry Destroys The Ability To Write.

The Brown Blotches Of The Benevolent Skin Cancer The Sun Brings From Its Reflection On The Tropic Sea Were On His Cheeks. The Blotches Ran Well Down The Sides Of His Face And His Hands Had The Deep-creased Scars From Handling Heavy Fish On The Cords. But None Of These Scars Were Fresh. They Were As Old As Erosions In A Fishless Desert.