It's Not Time To Worry Yet

I Wonder How Much Of The Day I Spend Just Callin' After You.

The Remainder Of My Schooldays Were No More Auspicious Than The First. Indeed, They Were An Endless Project That Slowly Evolved Into A Unit, In Which Miles Of Construction Paper And Wax Crayon Were Expended By The State Of Alabama In Its Well-meaning But Fruitless Efforts To Teach Me Group Dynamics.

I Didn't Expect The Book To Sell In The First Place. I Was Hoping For A Quick And Merciful Death At The Hands Of Reviewers But At The Same Time I Sort Of Hoped That Maybe Someone Would Like It Enough To Give Me Encouragement. Public Encouragement. I Hoped For A Little, As I Said, But I Got Rather A Whole Lot, And In Some Ways This Was Just About As Frightening As The Quick, Merciful Death I'd Expected.

Next Morning I Awoke, Looked Out The Window And Nearly Died Of Fright. My Screams Brought Atticus From His Bathroom Half-shaven. "the World's Endin', Atticus! Please Do Something -!" I Dragged Him To The Window And Pointed. "no It's Not," He Said. "it's Snowing.

To Be A Serious Writer Requires Discipline That Is Iron Fisted. It's Sitting Down And Doing It Whether You Think You Have It In You Or Not. Everyday. Alone. Without Interruption. Contrary To What Most People Think, There Is No Glamour To Writing. In Fact, It's Heartbreak Most Of The Time.