I Think My Writing Is

But It Does No Good--solves Nothing--to Distance Myself From The Front Lines Of Human Need By Using The Mail As A Safe Shelter. I Believe That Serving The Best Ends Of Humanity Means Getting Out In The Middle Of It Just As It Is, Not Staying Home Writing Checks And Thinking Hopeful Thoughts. The World Does Not Need Tourists Who Ride By In A Bus Clucking Their Tongues. The World As It Is Needs Those Who Will Love It Enough To Change It, With What They Have, Where They Are. And You're Damned Right That's Idealistic. No Apology. When Idealism Goes Into The Trash As Junk Mail, We're Finished.

Life Is. I Am. Anything Might Happen.

For Thirty Years Now, In Times Of Stress And Strain, When Something Has Me Backed Against The Wall And I'm Ready To Do Something Really Stupid With My Anger, A Sorrowful Face Appears In My Mind And Asks... "problem Or Inconvenience?" I Think Of This As The Wollman Test Of Reality. Life Is Lumpy. And A Lump In The Oatmeal, A Lump In The Throat, And A Lump In The Breast Are Not The Same Lump. One Should Learn The Difference.

If You Notice Phrases, Ideas, And Anecdotes That Closely Resemble Those That Appear Elsewhere In My Writing, It's Not A Matter Of Sloppy Editing. I'm Repeating Myself. I'm Reshuffling Words In The Hope That Just Once I Might Say Something Exactly Right. And I'm Still Wrestling With Dilemmas That Are Not Easily Resolved Or Easily Dismissed. I Run At Them Again And Again Because I Am Not Finished With Them. Any May Never Be. Work-in- Progress On A Life-in-progress Is What My Writing Is About. And Some Progress In The Work Is Enough To Keep It Going On.

You Will Continue To Read Stories Of Crookedness And Corruption - Of Policemen Who Lie And Steal, Doctors Who Reap Where They Do Not Sew, Politicians On The Take. Don't Be Misled. They Are News Because They Are The Exceptions.