Every Year The Hunters Shot Cows And

I Had To Learn Compassion. Had To Learn What It Felt Like To Hate, And To Forgive And To Love And Be Loved. And To Lose People Close To Me. Had To Feel Deep Loneliness And Sorrow. And Then I Could Write.

Few Things Are Better In The World Than A Room Full Of Librarians. I Consider Them Literary Heroes. The Keepers And Defenders Of The Written Word.

When Someone Stabs You It's Not Your Fault That You Feel Pain.

What Haunted People Even, Perhaps Especially, On Their Deathbed? What Chased Them, Tortured Them And Brought Some Of Them To Their Knees? And [he] Thought He Had The Answer. Regret. Regret For Things Said, Things Done, And Things Not Done. Regret For The People They Might Have Been. And Failed To Be.

Every Decade Of My Life I Attempted To Write A Novel. But I Had Nothing To Say. I Was Far Too Self-absorbed, And Now I Realize I Was Writing For Others, So That They'd Applaud Me, See My Genius, Tell Me How Wonderful I Am, Or Be Jealous Of My Success.