I Don't Have A Problem With Many

I Thought, I Fanced, That In A Moment, I Would Be Standing On Nothing At All, And For The First Time In My Life, I Needed The Wings None Of Us Has.

I Might Spend 100 Pages Trying To Get To Know The World I'm Writing About: Its Contours, Who Are My Main Characters, What Are Their Relationships To Each Other, And Just Trying To Get A Sense Of What And Who This Book Is About. Usually Around That Point Of 100 Pages, I Start To Feel Like I'm Lost, I Have Too Much Material, It's Time To Start Making Some Choices. It's Typically At That Point That I Sit Down And Try To Make A Formal Outline And Winnow Out What's Not Working And What I'm Most Interested In, Where The Story Seems To Be Going.

Horror Grows Impatient, Rhetorically, With The Stoic Fatalism Of Ecclesiastes. That We Are All Going To Die, That Death Mocks And Cancels Every One Of Our Acts And Attainments And Every Moment Of Our Life Histories, This Knowledge Is To Storytelling What Rust Is To Oxidation; The Writer Of Horror Holds With Those Who Favor Fire. The Horror Writer Is Not Content To Report On Death As The Universal System Of Human Weather; He Or She Chases Tornadoes. Horror Is Stoicism With A Taste For Spectacle.

It Took Marvel Comics Years To Begin To Put Together Any Worthwhile Superheroines. The First Crop Was, To A Gal, Embarrassingly Disappointing. They Had All The Measly Powers That Fifties And Sixties Male Chauvinism Could Contrive To Bestow On A Superwoman.

Drunk, Jane Spoke As Though She Were Nancy Drew. I Was A Fool For A Girl With A Dainty Lexicon.