I Can Get Pissed Off Very Easily.

As Her Analyst Had Told Her: The Deeper Buried The Distress, The Further Into The Body It Went. The Digestive System Was About As Far As It Could Go To Hide.

He Pretended It Was The Only Thing That Kept Him From It. But, Far Back In His Mind, He Wondered If He Could Write Anything. Often The Question Threw Itself At Him When He Was Least Expecting It. You Have Four Hours Every Morning, The Statement Would Rise Like A Menacing Wraith. You Have Time To Write Many Thousands Of Words. Why Don't You? And The Answer Was Always Lost In A Tangle Of Becauses And Wells And Endless Reasons That He Clung To Like A Drowning Man At Straws.

I Hate It When Something I've Had Published "inspires" Some Nut To Imitate What I've Written, Or Some Teacher Gets Fired For Having Her Students Read One Of My Stories Or Novels.

Each Memory Was Brought To Life Before Me And Within Me. I Could Not Avoid Them. Neither Could I Rationalize, Explain Away. I Could Only Re-experience With Total Cognizance, Unprotected By Pretense. Self Delusion Was Impossible, Truth Exposed In This Blinding Light. Nothing As I Thought It Had Been. Nothing As I Hoped It Had Been. Only As It Had Been.

That Which You Believe Becomes Your World