The only reason I didn't kill myself after I read the reviews of my first book was because we have two rivers in New York and I couldn't decide which one to jumo into.
I picked up the writing on the very day he died. It was the only consolation I could find.
I rail against writers who talk about the loneliness of it all — what do they want, a crowd looking over their typewriters? Or those who talk about having to stare at a blank page — do they want someone to write on it?
Beware the fictionist writing his own life. Even candor becomes a strategy.
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