It Kills Your Writing If

I Spend My Time Dwelling On Revenge And Try To Deal With The Monsters Crawling Out Of The Ashes.

This So Gnawed At Him On Some Nights That He Lay Awake Wondering Just How Many Unknown And Similarly Inconsequential Accidents And Bits Of Happenstance Were At This Moment Occurring Or Failing To Occur In Order To Ensure He Took His Next Breath, And The Next.

Here I Am, Where I Ought To Be. A Writer Must Have A Place Where He Or She Feels This, The Place To Love And Be Irritated With.

Add There Was That Moment When My Mother And Father Walked In The Door Disguised As Old People. I Thought The Miles In The Car Had Bent Them, Dulled Their Eyes, Even Grayed And Whitened Their Hair And Caused Their Hands And Voices To Tremble. At The Same Time, I Found, As I Rose Form The Chair, I'd Gotten Old Along With Them.

You Really Need To Approach Each Book As If You Have Been A Failure. . . . If You Start To Believe Your Flap-copy, You're Finished As A Writer.