Art Doesn't Exist If You Just Do

Oh, That Sound? I'm In The Hot Tub, Reading A Novel.

When I Came Home For The Summer After My First Year Of College, I Told My Mother That My Best Friend And I Were Driving To California. She Laughed Out Loud - 2,000 Miles In A What? Well, My Best Friend Had An Old Chevy. What Could Go Wrong?

Twenty-five, He Was. Twenty-five Tomorrow. Some Years The Snow Had Melted For His Birthday, But Not This Year, And So It Had Been A Long Winter Full Of Cows.

I Wrote The Dickens Book Because I Loved Dickens, Not Because I Felt A Kinship With Him, But After Writing The Book It Seemed To Me That There Was At Least One Similarity Between Us And That Was That Dickens Loved To Write And Wrote With The Ease And Conviction Of Breathing. Me, Too.

Before I Write A Novel, Images Float Around In My Head That Work Like Icons - They Are Meaningless In Themselves, But Serve As Reminders.