Her Heart Was A Secret Garden And

Writing Is Finally About One Thing: Going Into A Room Alone And Doing It. Putting Words On Paper That Have Never Been There In Quite That Way Before. And Although You Are Physically By Yourself, The Haunting Demon Never Leaves You, That Demon Being The Knowledge Of Your Own Terrible Limitations, Your Hopeless Inadequacy, The Impossibility Of Ever Getting It Right. No Matter How Diamond-bright Your Ideas Are Dancing In Your Brain, On Paper They Are Earthbound.

One Way An Author Dies A Little Each Day Is When His Books Go Out Of Print.

Buttercup's Mother Whirled On Him. 'did You Forget To Pay Your Taxes?' (this Was After Taxes. But Everything Is After Taxes. Taxes Were Here Even Before Stew.)

Anybody That Says Different Is Selling Something.

I Have Come To Terms With My Life, And That Is My Affair - I Am Not Cold, I Swear, But I Have Decided Certain Things, It Is Best For Me To Ignore Emotion; I Have Not Been Happy Dealing With It.