In The Writing Process, The More A

What's Terrible Is To Pretend That Second-rate Is First-rate. To Pretend That You Don't Need Love When You Do; Or You Like Your Work When You Know Quite Well You're Capable Of Better.

All Sanity Depends On This: That It Should Be A Delight To Feel Heat Strike The Skin, A Delight To Stand Upright, Knowing The Bones Moving Easily Under The Flesh.

Music Attacks My Inner Ear Like An Antagonist, It's Not My World.

There Are No Laws For The Novel. There Never Have Been, Nor Can There Ever Be.

All My Friends' Mothers Were Appalling Women.