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He Looked At The Pain And He Set Himself Apart From It. He Saw It, Examined It, Identified It, Corralled It. He Isolated It. He Challenged It. You Against Me? Dream On, Pal. He Built Borders For It. Then Walls. He Built Walls And Forced The Pain Behind Them And Then He Moved The Walls Inward, Compressing The Pain, Crushing It, Boxing It In, Limiting It, Beating It.

It's A Kind Of Zen Question: If You Write A Book And No One Reads It, Is It Really A Book?

Some Old Guy Once Said That The Meaning Of Life Is That It Ends.

Everything You Could Want - Action, Suspense, Character And Setting, All Floating On The Easy Lyricism Of A Fine Writer At The Top Of His Game.

I Need A Stimulating Environment To Write Because My Books Are Driven At 100 Miles Per Hour At A Time.