True Joy Is A Profound Remembering; And

I Really Believe That There Is An Enormous Appetite Amongst Readers For An Originality Of Vision. In Other Words, Be True To Your Own Dreams And There Will Always Be People Who Want To Hear Them.

Make Your Own Worlds. Make Your Own Laws. Make Your Own Creations, Your Own Star Systems. Don't Feel Answerable To Anyone, Or As Though You Have To Create After Some Preordained Model. You Don't Have To Write Like Myself, Or King Or Anne Rice: Be Yourself. Nothing Is More Wonderful Than Discovering A New Voice, Particularly If It Happens To Be Your Own.

We Each Die Countless Little Deaths On Our Way To The Last. We Die Out Of Shame As Humiliation. We Perish From Despair. And, Of Course, We Die For Love.

Spring, If It Lingers More Than A Week Beyond Its Span, Starts To Hunger For Summer To End The Days Of Perpetual Promise. Summer In Its Turn Soon Begins To Sweat For Something To Quench Its Heat, And The Mellowest Of Autumns Will Tire Of Gentility At Last, And Ache For A Quick Sharp Frost To Kill Its Fruitfulness. Even Winter — The Hardest Season, The Most Implacable — Dreams, As February Creeps On, Of The Flame That Will Presently Melt It Away. Everything Tires With Time, And Starts To Seek Some Opposition, To Save It From Itself.

Welcome To The Worst Nightmare Of All, Reality!