It’s as if we live in our imaginations, dreaming our world as we go.
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The thing, after all, I like about people, is that they aren’t me.
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Writing has taught me that rejection, in an odd way, is a form of agreement between both parties.
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There’s a kind of romance to believing in a book for year after year, but that’s a lot of time to doubt and despair.
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I’ve always felt that the very act of writing is a kind of answer.
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Time only measures the changing conditions of the world, the seasons and the night and the day.
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I’ve felt sometimes as if I’d lived my whole life waiting for the time to come when my days would be mine and mine alone.
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Sometimes I wondered if I had ever let myself write a story without the limitations I had placed on myself in social settings.
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Knowing how to tell your story is the very opposite of arrogance.
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Like any good magician, I must make the unreal seem real
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It’s rare that my stories resolve with a happy event.
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The real discipline necessary for this work is choosing not to think the kind of thoughts that are incompatible with creativity.
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If I want to get along with these people, I have to give up most of my notions of right and wrong. It interferes with relationships.
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There’s great in relief showing my struggles and grief when I know how things will really turn out.
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How scary stillness seems if you believe you have lost the means of propulsion.
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All discouragement and despair are an expression of erroneous fortunetelling.
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The choice to start again will always be available, just the as fearful questions will be waiting to challenge you again.
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That’s the beauty of stories. Once we’re finished telling them, they belong to the reader.
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No one can really tell you you’re good enough in a way that will really matter.
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Where you are will always be somewhere when you ask yourself why you’re there.
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