Our great literary lights are very often, shall we say, “lacking in superfluous vigor”? So many have been indoorsy, reclusive navel-gazers, with biceps as thin as their pencils and a severe tendency to dwell in their fevered imaginations. Nobody would mistake Charles Dickens for an outdoorsman or Herman Melville for a great party guest. Stephen King doesn’t prompt ideation about feats of strength.  Of course, until I have written, published, and achieved universal renown as the author of the Great American Novel, I really can’t throw many stones at any other writer.  But I do hold... Read More