Fiction Writing Feels More Honest

I Wish There Really Was Such A Thing As A Time-clock Puncher, Though. I Wish Some Gigantic, Surly, Stone-fisted Soap Mahoney-type Guy Went Around The World Smashing Every Clock In Sight Till There Weren't Any More And People Got So Confused About When To Go To The Mill Or School Or Church That They Gave Up And Did Something Interesting Instead.

To Me, It's A Great Day Every Time I Receive A Letter From Somebody Who Climbed Inside One Of My Books, Inhabited It For A While, Learned A Little Something, And Emerged Grateful.

Then In October, Indian Summer, The Air Turned So Soft, The Sunlight So Fragile, And Each Day's Loveliness So Poignantly Doomed That Even Self-ignorance And Restlessness Felt Like Profound States Of Being, And He Just Wandered The Empty Beaches And Misty Headlands In A State Of Serene Confusion And Awe.

The Bad Thing About Falling Into Pieces Is That It Hurts. The Good Thing About It Is That Once You're Lying There In Shards You've Got Nothing Left To Protect, And So Have No Reason Not To Be Honest

I'd Taken A Big Fat Crisis Off My Shoulders And Loaded It All On Jesus, Which Seemed Unfair In A Way, But Was Exactly What The Bible Recommended.