You've got to work with your mistakes until they look intended. Understand?

But I can hardly sit still. I keep fidgeting, crossing one leg and then the other. I feel like I could throw off sparks, or break a window--maybe rearrange all the furniture.

Dreams, you know, are what you wake up from.

I dressed and went for a walk - determined not to return until I took in what Nature had to offer.

Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it.

I'm moving to Nevada. Either there or kill myself.

It's akin to style, what I'm talking about, but it isn't style alone. It is the writer's particular and unmistakable signature on everything he writes. It is his world and no other. This is one of the things that distinguishes one writer from another. Not talent. There's plenty of that around. But a writer who has some special way of looking at things and who gives artistic expression to that way of looking: that writer may be around for a time.