Put Your Hair Up, Min. The Secret

With The Publishing Of The Basic Eight, It Was Often Assumed That I Was Really Immature And Callow, And With The Publishing Of Watch Your Mouth, It Was Assumed That I Was Oversexualized, And With Lemony Snicket, It's Often Assumed That I'm Erudite And Depressed. But All The Voices More Or Less Came Naturally To Me.

The Violins Waltzed. The Cellos And Basses Provided Accompaniment. The Violas Mourned Their Fate, While The Concertmaster Showed Off. The Flutes Did Bird Imitations…repeatedly, And The Reed Instruments Had The Good Taste To Admire My Jacket. The Trumpets Held A Parade In Honor Of Our Great Nation, While The French Horns Waxed Nostalgic About Something Or Other. The Trombones Had Too Much To Drink. The Percussion Beat The Band, And The Tuba Stayed Home Playing Cards With His Landlady, The Harp, Taking Sips Of Warm Milk A Blue Little Cup. “but The Composer Is Still Dead.

Like Most Writers, I Look Back On All Of My Finished Works With Utter Regret, And The Trouble With Writing A Series Of Novels Is That You Have To Go Back And Read Them, And Make Sure That You Haven't Forgotten Anything You've Created, And Then When You Do That, You're Faced With Your Own Mistakes On Every Trick, From The Wrong Word In Places To Entirely The Wrong Incident.

There Is Only Laughing Across The Land As The Car Moves You Along, On Your Way Someplace With Love In The Car.

You Can't Believe Everything You Read.