Books don't offer real escape, but they can stop a mind scratching itself raw.
I am going to tell you a secret. Everything is about wanting. Everything. Things happen because of people wanting. Watch closely, and you’ll see what I mean.
How vulgar, this hankering after immortality, how vain, how false. Composers are merely scribblers of cave paintings. One writes music because winter is eternal and because, if one didn't, the wolves and blizzards would be at one's throat all the sooner.
I got a rejection letter from an editor at HarperCollins, who included a report from his professional reader. This report shredded my first-born novel, laughed at my phrasing, twirled my lacy pretensions around and gobbed into the seething mosh pit of my stolen clichés. As I read the report, the world became very quiet and stopped rotating. What poisoned me was the fact that the report's criticisms were all absolutely true. The sound of my landlady digging in the garden got the world moving again. I slipped the letter into the trash... knowing I'd remember every word.
Writing is probably one-fifth coming up with the stuff, and four-fifths self-editing again and again and again.
Lunatics are writers whose works write them.
I can write pretty much anywhere.
Write something every single day, even if it's just three lines. And it doesn't matter if it's any good - just write something every day.
Writing is such a damn lonely sickness.
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