...but Before I Can Live With Other

Any Writer Worth His Salt Writes To Please Himself.

I've Been Writing As Long As I've Been Able To Form Words. I Never Wrote With An Idea Of Publishing Anything Until I Began Working On '[to Kill A] Mockingbird'. I Think That What Went Before May Have Been A Rather Subconscious Form Of Learning How To Write, Of Training Myself.

I Remember When My Daddy Gave Me That Gun. He Told Me That I Should Never Point It At Anything In The House; And That He'd Rather I'd Shoot At Tin Cans In The Backyard. But He Said That Sooner Or Later He Supposed The Temptation To Go After Birds Would Be Too Much, And That I Could Shoot All The Blue Jays I Wanted - If I Could Hit 'em; But To Remember It Was A Sin To Kill A Mockingbird.

Being Southerners, It Was A Source Of Shame To Some Members Of The Family That We Had No Recorded Ancestors On Either Side Of The Battle Of Hastings.

When I Pointed To Him His Palms Slipped Slightly, Leaving Greasy Sweat Streaks On The Wall, And He Hooked His Thumbs In His Belt. A Strange Spasm Shook Him, As If He Heard Fingernails Scrape Slate, But As I Gazed At Him In Wonder The Tension Slowly Drained From His Face. His Lips Parted Into A Timid Smile, And Our Neighbor’s Image Blurred With My Sudden Tears. “hey, Boo,” I Said. “mr. Arthur, Honey,” Said Atticus, Gently Correcting Me. “jean Louise, This Is Mr. Arthur Radley. I Believe He Already Knows You.