Part Of The Transaction Between Writer And

My Candidacy Is A Compelling Argument For My Candidacy. I Want To Be President.

In A Mad Moment, My Family And I Purchased A Home In Maine Because It's The Place In The World That My Wife Loves Better Than Any Other Place Or Any Other Human, And So I Have Committed My Life And What Had Once Been My Economic Security That Has Now Returned To Insecurity, To A Patch Of Painful, Rocky Land On The Shores Of Horrible, Cold Waters To A Place Where People Go In The Summer To Experience Autumn Because Leaves Start Falling On August 1.

Sports Is A Bloodless Rehearsal Of Confrontation, And Everyone Shakes Hands Or High Fives Or Fist Bumps At The End To Show That Everything Is Okay.

Writing For Me Always Requires Trickery. Tricking Myself Into Sitting Down, Letting Words Tumble Out Until You Find The Good Ones. It's Sort Of A Trance. And When A Piece Is Done, I Have Little Memory Of How I Wrote It, And Zero Confidence I'd Ever Be Able To Do It Again.

I Have Learned That Newborn Infants Roll Their Eyes Around And Move Their Heads And Their Arms In Short Jerky Spasms. And If You Homeschool Them, They Will Stay This Way Forever.