My life is extremely full and wretchedly busy, and I feel that while my life drains energy from my work, my work in turn drains energy from my life. The result is, I am always playing catch-up spiritually. That is my thorn.

I made real sacrifices and took big risks. But living, it seems to me, is largely about risk.

Let me say that I absolutely loved writing 'A Common Life,' because it was a book about love.

Publishing is, by its nature, about deadlines, and deadlines are toxic.

I learned not to be so bitterly defeated when my fiction took a beating from editors. I learned in advertising to color in the lines and have my work done on time and to make it the very best it could be.

In World War One, they called it shell shock. Second time around, they called it battle fatigue. After 'Nam, it was post-traumatic stress disorder.

Bottom line, wasn’t life itself a special occasion?