Good Days, They Come Around The Oddest

I'm Not So Sure That I Can Teach People How To, You Know, Write Dialogue Or Create Plot Or Anything Like That. But If I Can Get Them And Grab Them By The Scruff Of The Neck And Say, You Can Do This, And If I See That Fire In Their Eyes, That's When I Think I Know A Writer.

The Irish Are Great For Their Tunes, But All Their Lovesongs Are Sad And Their Warsongs Happy.

One Small Cloud, Cast Out By The Herd, Limps Away To The West.

Stories Are There To Be Told, And Each Story Changes With The Telling. Time Changes Them. Logic Changes Them. Grammar Changes Them. History Changes Them. Each Story Is Shifted Side-ways By Each Day That Unfolds. Nothing Ends. The Only Thing That Matters, As Faulkner Once Put It, Is The Human Heart In Conflict With Itself. At The Heart Of All This Is The Possibility, Or Desire, To Create A Piece Of Art That Talks To The Human Instinct For Recovery And Joy.

We Have To Admire The World For Not Ending On Us.