Lyda Was An Exuberant, Even A Dramatic

That 'writers Write' Is Meant To Be Self-evident. People Like To Say It. I Find It Is Hardly Ever True. Writers Drink. Writers Rant. Writers Phone. Writers Sleep. I Have Met Very Few Writers Who Write At All.

I Think When You Are Truly Stuck, When You Have Stood Still In The Same Spot For Too Long, You Throw A Grenade In Exactly The Spot You Were Standing In, And Jump, And Pray. It Is The Momentum Of Last Resort.

I Think Maybe Writers Come From Different Planets. I Mean, Not In Any Sense As Extravagant As Baryshnikov. But There Are Some Writers Who Understand Each Other This Way And Others Who Understand Each Other That Way. Then There's This Great Herd, The "herd Of Independent Minds."

There Follows A Little Obscenity Here, A Dash Of Philosophy There, Considerable Whining Overall, And A Modern Satirical Novel Is Born.

Though Films Become More Daring Sexually, They Are Probably Less Sexy Than They Ever Were. There Haven't Been Any Convincing Love Scenes Or Romances In The Movies In A While. (nobody Even Seems To Neck In Theaters Any More.) ... When The Mechanics And Sadism Quotients Go Up, The Movie Love Interest Goes Dead, And The Film Just Lies There, Giving A Certain Amount Of Offense.