It’s mentally exhausting, feeling bad about something you can do nothing about.
It is always difficult, even with the best will in the world, to look back a long way and see anything resembling the truth.
Writing is never, ever easy but I wake up every morning grateful for the gift of being able to do this.
As many have noted, the peril for authors is that our work space is too easily our play space.
When I was 18 years old, in a more innocent time, my first backpacking trip through Europe, I sneaked into the Temple of Saturn in the Roman Forum after nightfall and spent several hours in there avoiding the guards patrolling.
I have always argued, in a good novel, interesting things happen to interesting people.
Irritation for some men was their response to strain.
Give the people a new word and they think they have a new fact.
An artist represents an oppressed people and makes revolution irresistible.
Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy.
You're dead," I repeated. "So why are you in my dream?" He raised the bill of his olive drab ball cap with one finger. " Good question. Morbid, isn't it?" "What?" "Dreaming about dead peolpe. Creepy. You ever see a therapist about that?" "I'm not -" Even in dreams, I couldn't win an argument. Even when he was dead.