I am a novelist at heart.

A great ancient poet was blind. A great classical composer was deaf. Many of us are dumb. What have we to show for it?

I am a novelist at heart.

Listen to the trees as they sway in the wind. Their leaves are telling secrets. Their bark sings songs of olden days as it grows around the trunks. And their roots give names to all things. Their language has been lost. But not the gestures.

I sat down and wrote a short story in two weeks and submitted it to Marion Zimmer Bradley. And Marion bought "Wound On The Moon" .My first sale and my first pro sale rolled into one.

Q: Why do I love thee, O Night? A: Because you know I will never answer.

Don't let a loud few determine the nature of the sound. It makes for poor harmony and diminishes the song.