I was particularly good at math and science.
You know, I'm just a very boring, not very funny person in person. I don't feel pressured to be otherwise.
If I had a staff of even one person, or could tolerate a small amphetamine habit, or entertain the possibility of weekly blood transfusions, or had been married to Vera Nabokov, or had a housespouse of even minimal abilities, a literary life would be easier to bring about. (In my mind I see all your male readers rolling their eyes. But your female ones - what is that? Are they nodding in agreement? Are their fists in the air?)
I've come to realize that life, while being everything, is also strangely not much. Except when the light shines on it a different way and then you realize it's a lot after all!
Love is the answer, said the songs, and that's OK. It was OK, I supposed, as an answer. But no more than that. It was not a solution; it wasn't really even an answer, just a reply.
You know, as fiction writers, if our instincts are off, we can't pay our bills.
All the world's a stage we're going through.
I feel like a cliche.
I believe the more difficult the circumstances, the more people will be inclined to trust those in charge at the moment.
My ideal guy would be funny and fun to be around.
If there had been another female for him since we arrived in Salvation, I needed to cut off all her hair and beat her half to death. The strength of that impulse scared me, and I took a step back. Deuce the girl was every bit as vicious as the Huntress, it seemed