Choosing Writing As A Career, Just By

The Fact Is, There's A Great Deal Of Hair-splitting Fussiness When It Comes To Fly-fishing, Most Of It As Silly As A Top Hat.

You Learn To Write By Reading, And My Experiences And Tastes As A Reader Are Pretty Wide.

Even On The Darkest Night, My Friend, Life Will Have Its Way.

A Baby Was A Fact. It Was A Being With A Mind And A Nature, And You Could Feel About It Any Way You Liked, But A Baby Wouldn't Care. Just By Existing, It Demanded That You Believe In A Future: The Future It Would Crawl In, Walk In, Live In. A Baby Was A Piece Of Time; It Was A Promise You Made That The World Made Back To You.

There Was Something In The Pages Of These Books That Had The Power To Make Him Feel Better About Things, A Life Raft To Cling To Before The Dark Currents Of Memory Washed Him Downstream Again, And On Brighter Days, He Could Even See Himself Going On This Way For Some Time. A Small But Passable Life. And Then, Of Course, The End Of The World Happened.