He'd surely been spawned by some cataclysmic event of nature, not born.
If I cared for human approval, I would have been dead long ago.
Short fiction seems more targeted - hand grenades of ideas, if you will. When they work, they hit, they explode, and you never forget them. Long fiction feels more like atmosphere: it's a lot smokier and less defined.
The problem with surviving was that you ended up with the ghosts of everyone you’d ever left behind riding on your shoulders.
We are nature. Our every tinkering is nature, our every biological striving. We are what we are, and the world is ours. We are its gods. Your only difficulty is your unwillingness to unleash your potential fully upon it.
The surfeit of bad trends pushes me to set my stories in worlds which are often diminished versions of our own present.
Knowledge is simply a terrible ocean we must cross, and hope that wisdom lies on the other side.
Everything in this life passes away — only God remains, only He is worth struggling towards. We have a choice: to follow the way of this world, of the society that surrounds us, and thereby find ourselves outside of God; or to choose the way of life, to choose God Who calls us and for Whom our heart is searching.
I'm the unknown everyone's already sick of.
Writing is an exercise in sculpture, chipping away at the rock until you find the nose.
Nature is upheld by antagonism.