Nothing Factual That I Write

September 2001. A Sunny Day In New York. Many Of Us Who Are Writers Were At Work On The Transformation Of Life Into A Poem, Story, A Chapter Of A Novel, When Terror Pounced From The Sky, And The World Made Witness To It.

Disaster Is Private, In Its Way, As Love Is.

Responsibility Is What Awaits Outside The Eden Of Creativity.

A Writer Doesn't Only Need The Time When He's Actually Writing - He Or She Has Got To Have Time To Think And Time Just To Let Things Work Out. Nothing Is Worse For This Than Society. Nothing Is Worse For This Than The Abrasive, If Enjoyable, Effect Of Other People.

Certainly The People Who Are Close To Me Are Happier. They Feel Freer.