It Is Difficult To Be King When

Only Another Writer, Someone Who Had Worked His Heart Out On A Good Book Which Sold Three Thousand Copies, Could Appreciate The Thrill That Overcame Me One April Morning In 1973 When Dean Rivers Of Our Small College In Georgia Appeared At My Classroom Door

I Love Writing. I Love The Swirl And Swing Of Words As They Tangle With Human Emotions.

Religious Hatreds Ought Not To Be Propagated At All, But Certainly Not On A Tax-exempt Basis.

It Takes Courage To Know When You Ought To Be Afraid.

As A Writer I Have Persisted In My Uncertainty, Alternating Between Novels Which Could Charitably Be Considered Literature And World Reporting Which By Another Stretch Of Objective Standards Might Be Called History.