Over The Long Haul I'd Say That

This Is, If Not A Lifetime Process, It's Awfully Close To It. The Writer Broadens, Becomes Deeper, Becomes More Observant, Becomes More Tempered, Becomes Much Wiser Over A Period Time Passing. It Is Not Something That Is Injected Into Him By A Needle. It Is Not Something That Comes On A Wave Of Flashing, Explosive Light One Night And Say, 'huzzah! Eureka! I've Got It!' And Then Proceeds To Write The Great American Novel In Eleven Days. It Doesn't Work That Way. It's A Long, Tedious, Tough, Frustrating Process, But Never, Ever Be Put Aside By The Fact That It's Hard.

There Are Weapons That Are Simply Thoughts. For The Record, Prejudices Can Kill And Suspicion Can Destroy.

The Writer's No Different. When He's Rejected, That Paper Is Rejected, In A Sense, A Sizeable Fragment Of The Writer Is Rejected As Well. It's A Piece Of Himself That's Being Turned Down.

Why Do I Write? I Guess That's Been Asked Of Every Writer. I Don't Know. It Isn't Any Massive Compulsion.

I Guess Requiem For A Heavyweight As Old As It Is Was As Honest A Piece As I've Ever Done.