I was about to write this essay. But then I thought of all the subjects that had already been covered, like the importance of education, and what to do with the surplus, and racial harmony, and protecting the environment, and the beauty of baseball, and what ever happened to the 60's and what America needs now, and I backed off. I was about to write this essay about Labor Day, but I didn't. I was on the verge of writing this essay, but then I worried that critics would find fault with it.
Writing is hard enough as it is without the critics in the trees.
I love every bone in their heads. But his editor was away, so an associate editor read the novel and replied to Faulkner that his sentences were too long, and his syntax was out of whack, and he'd better start the novel over again. I came this close to writing this essay. That Russian sub in the Barents Sea and the terrible burial of its crew. In such a self-celebrating inventive time, you'd think that someone would have come up with a way to rescue those guys.