...maybe It Was Better To

My Illness Is Excruciating And Difficult To Cope With. It Takes Over Your Entire Life And Causes More Suffering Than I Can Describe.

While It's Really Hard To Do, At The Same Time, I'm Escaping My Body, Which I Really Want To Do. I'm Living Someone Else's Life. I Get Very Intensely Into The Story, Into The Interviews And The Research. I'm Experiencing Things Along With My Subjects. I Have A Freedom I Don't Have In My Physical Life

In 1938... The Year's #1 Newsmaker Was Not Fdr, Hitler, Or Mussolini. Nor Was It Lou Gehrig Or Clark Gable. The Subject Of The Most Newspaper Column Inches In 1938 Wasn't Even A Person. It Was An Undersized, Crooked-legged Racehorse Named Seabiscuit.

Books On Horse Racing Subjects Have Never Done Well, And I Am Told That Publishers Had Come To Think Of Them As The Literary Version Of Box Office Poison

Every Day After Lunch When I Was Writing My First Book, I'd Nibble A Square Of Fine Chocolate And Meditate On All That Had Gone Into Its Creation: The Sun And Rain That Spilled On The Cocoa Plant, The Soil That Nourished It, The Hands That Picked The Beans, And So On. My Taste Of Chocolate Became A Lesson On The Interconnectedness Of Things, And The Infinite Blessings For Which I Am Grateful.