Mine Is Not An Autonomous Imagination.

You Have Friends Who Actually Care About You And Speak The Language Of The Inner Self. You Have Avoided Them Of Late. Your Soul Is As Disheveled As Your Apartment, And Until You Can Clean It Up A Little You Don't Want To Invite Anyone Inside.

Delia's Arms Were Inscribed With A Grid Of Self- Inflicted Wounds, An Intricate Text Of Self-loathing

It's The Cynics Who Never Get Married.

I Realized That I Might Not Ever Make It As A Writer, That It Might Be Because I Wasn't Good Enough, Or That It Might Be Because The Odds Were Just Too Long.

I Think, When I'm Writing, I Have A More Clinical View Than I Do When I'm Reading. I Like Pretending To Be God And Basically Determining The Fate Of My Characters. But As A Reader, I'm A Sucker. I'm Very Sentimental. I Get Upset When People That I Like Die. And Yet I Have Killed Off Characters In My Books Quite Heartlessly, And Sometimes Found That Readers Were Very Upset By It.