This is hardly a tragedy, I realize, and hardly original, but until Hollywood kicked me hard in the nuts I’d always thought that I would succeed massively at whatever I tried.
The business of writing is contingent on the tastes and judgment of others. Editors, critics, Oprah. Again, we adapt to tune it all out.
When you get right down to it, is that I have an overactive dreamlife, and instead of letting it stunt my emotional growth, alienate others, and compromise my sanity, I write.
I can’t keep myself from conversation. I urge you to read in solitude, but I also want to pull you out of that solitude and create some sort of dialogue.
Good work materializes under all economic conditions, so you might as well be wealthy.
The world owes me nothing. The world is indifferent to me, it feels nothing for me. I am merely attempting to secure some sort of foothold on the sheer cliff face up to its sumptuous plateaus.
Learning to write better fiction is a process, not something you either can or can’t do.
As always, I just kind of slither around, investigating the murk in between.
I try to write things that are very readable. Anytime someone tells me they’ve stayed up all night and read my book, I feel like I’ve triumphed.
Perhaps it is more correct to say that the truth of one’s self, not one’s condition, is related to the truth of one’s writing.