I Try To Make My Books Reflect

From Where We Stand The Rain Seems Random. If We Could Stand Somewhere Else, We Would See The Order In It.

Thoughts, And Words That Spring From Them, Bend The Individual's Reality. To Speak Of Death Is To Invite It. To Think Of Sorrow Is To Produce It.

I Am 82 Years Old. I Imagine That I Will Keep On Writing As Long As Anyone Wants To Keep Reading.

An Author Knows His Landscape Best; He Can Stand Around, Smell The Wind, Get A Feel For His Place.

I Know What I Write About Seems Exotic To A Lot Of People, But Not For Me. I Pulled Up To An Old Trading Post And Saw A Few Elderly Navajos Sitting On A Bench. I Felt Right At Home.