I Wonder How Often In The Past

I Think It's A Terrible Thing To Write And Not Enjoy It. It's A Sad Thing. But Of Course A Lot Of People Do Work Because They Need To Eat. And We All Need To Eat, But That's Not The Only Reason To Work. You Couldn't Have Paid Me Not To Write.

Maybe Right And Wrong Did Not Move, But Understanding Of Them Did. The Wrenching Pain Of Walking The Same Path, Even For A Short Space, Tore Away The Willingness To Judge.

The Mountains Are So Beautiful They Make Me Ache Inside Because The Moment I Look Away I Know I Shall Need To See Them Again. And I Cannot Spend The Rest Of My Life Standing On The Spot Starting At Shifting Sunlight And Mist And Shadows Across The Sea.

Mystery Writers' Conventions Are Usually Good, And This One Has Been Excellent And Extremely Well Prepared And Thought Out In Advance. A Lot Of People Have Given Their Time And Their Skill, And A Good Deal Of Wit, And Anchorage Has Made Us Extraordinarily Welcome.

Some Kinds Of Beauty Did Not Heal, But Hollowed The Pain Even Deeper.