In Times Of Extreme Stress, One Can

My Work Is Very Dear To Me, And Certainly I Have Had All The Emotional Highs And Lows That Go With Trying To Get It To An Audience. But I Do Have Some Kind Of Detachment That Seems Somewhat Unusual In My Trade. I'm A Writer Who Writes Every Day. I Don't Have A Period Of Months Where I Can't Get Anything Done And I Wander Around Tearing My Hair Out. When I Come Back From A Book Tour, For Instance, I Might Have One Day Where I Sleep Late And Then Check My E-mail, And Then Go For A Walk, And Then The Next Day I'm Really Itching To Get Back At Writing A Story.

I Can't Imagine Why You Would Want To Take Your Child To See What The Career Of A Writer Is Like, Because It Mostly Consists Of Sitting In A Room Typing, Or Going To The Library And Looking Something Up. Those Are Not Exciting Things To Watch.

To Stutter Through It With You Or Even Stop Stuttering And Say Nothing, Was So Lucky And Soft, Better Talk Than Mile-a-minute With Anyone. After A Few Minutes We’d Stop Rattling, We’d Adjust, We’d Settle In, And The Conversation Would Speed Into The Night.

And A Refrigerator May Hold A Basket Of Strawberries, Which Would Be Important If A Maniac Said To You, "if You Don't Give Me A Basket Of Strawberries Right Now, I'm Going To Poke You With This Large Stick." But When The Two Elder Baudelaires And Quigley Quagmire Opened The Refrigerator, They Found Nothing That Would Help Someone Who Was Wounded, Dying Of Thirst, Or Being Threatened By A Strawberry-crazed, Stick-carrying Maniac.

It Is Very Unnerving To Be Proven Wrong, Particularly When You Are Really Right And The Person Who Is Really Wrong Is Proving You Wrong And Proving Himself, Wrongly, Right.