I'm Nothing. Nothing At All

I See All. I Hear All. I Know All. And I Spend A Great Deal Of Time In The Bathroom.

Everybody Has Opinions: I Have Them, You Have Them. And We Are All Told From The Moment We Open Our Eyes, That Everyone Is Entitled To His Or Her Opinion. Well, That's Horsepuckey, Of Course. We Are Not Entitled To Our Opinions; We Are Entitled To Our Informed Opinions. Without Research, Without Background, Without Understanding, It's Nothing. It's Just Bibble-babble. It's Like A Fart In A Wind Tunnel, Folks.

And We Passed Through The Cavern Of Rats. And We Passed Through The Path Of Boiling Steam. And We Passed Through The Country Of The Blind. And We Passed Through The Slough Of Despond. And We Passed Through The Vale Of Tears. And We Came, Finally, To The Ice Caverns.

Writing Is The Hardest Work In The World. I Have Been A Bricklayer And A Truck Driver, And I Tell You – As If You Haven't Been Told A Million Times Already – That Writing Is Harder. Lonelier. And Nobler And More Enriching.

Because The Chief Commodity A Writer Has To Sell Is His Courage. And If He Has None, He Is More Than A Coward. He Is A Sellout And A Fink And A Heretic, Because Writing Is A Holy Chore.