There Are Few Times That

I Always Say Three Things Make A Writer: Inspiration, Obviously; Perspiration, Doing The Work. But The Third Is Desperation. I'm Not Really Fit For Anything Else, Or To Have A Real Job. That Fear Drives Me. The Pressure Has Always Been Self Inflicted.

Kids Don’t Do What Their Parents Say-they Do What They See Their Parents Do. So Who Was To Blame Here?

I Would Never Write A Memoir, Because It Would Be Too Boring.

I'm Also Inspired By Anything That I Consider Great. It Makes Me Want To Raise My Game Too - Hitchcock Movies, Hopper Paintings, Springsteen Concerts.

Myron Reached For The Phone And Dialed Win's Number. After The Eighth Ring He Began To Hang Up When A Weak, Distant Voice Coughed. "hello?" Win?" Yeah." You Okay?" Hello?" Win?" Yeah." What Took You So Long To Answer The Phone?" Hello?" Win?" Who Is This?" Myron." Myron Bolitar?" How Many Other Myrons Do You Know?" Myron Bolitar?" No, Myron Rockefeller." Something's Wrong," Win Said. What?" Terribly Wrong." What Are You Talking About?" Some Asshole Is Calling Me At Seven In The Morning Pretending To Be My Best Friend." Sorry, I Forgot The Time.