The Silence Was Part Of The Story

I'd Known Enough Flush Times And Lean Ones To Understand That Money Came And Went. And That One Day I'd Also Lose My Looks, My Seemingly Boundless Energy And Maybe The Ability To Catch The Eye Of An Attractive Man And The Audacity To Rollerblade. My Name Would Be Forgotten. So Would Bad Reviews, And Good Ones. But Loving A Child Is Something That Lasts. Long After All The Rest Is Gone, That's What Endures.

It's Not Only Children Who Grow. Parents Do Too.

Nothing Like Being Visible, Publishing One's Work, And Speaking Openly About One's Life, To Disabuse The World Of The Illusion Of One's Perfection And Purity.

I Do Not Outline. There Are Writers I Know And Count As My Friends Who Certainly Do It The Other Way But For Me Part Of The Adventure Is Not Knowing How It's Going To Turn Out.

You Lay Your Hand Against His Skin And Just Rib His Back. Blow Into His Ear. Press That Baby Up Against Your Own Skin And Walk Outside With Him, Where The Night Air Will Sourround Him, And Moonlight Fall On His Face. Whistle, Maybe. Dance. Hum. Pray. (how To Calm A Crying Baby)