Life Isn't A Support System For Art.

It Starts With This: Put Your Desk In The Corner, And Every Time You Sit Down There To Write, Remind Yourself Why It Isn't In The Middle Of The Room. Life Isn't A Support System For Art. It's The Other Way Around.

The Boat Dipped And Swayed And Sometimes Took On Water, But It Did Not Sink; The Two Brothers Had Waterproofed It Well. I Do Not Know Where It Finally Fetched Up, If It Ever Did; Perhaps It Reached The Sea And Sails There Forever, Like A Magic Boat In A Fairytale. All I Know Is That It Was Still Afloat And Still Running On The Breast Of The Flood When It Passed The Incorporated Town Limits Of Derry, Maine, And There It Passes Out Of This Tale Forever.

I'm Most Afraid Of Losing My Mind. You Lose Your Identity, Your Sense Of Who You Are, Where You Are.

Sometimes Life Coughs Up Coincidences No Writer Of Fiction Would Dare Copy.

Discipline And Constant Work Are The Whetstones Upon Which The Dull Knife Of Talent Is Honed Until It Becomes Sharp Enough, Hopefully, To Cut Through Even The Toughest Meat And Gristle.