I'm no miracle man. I guarantee nothing but hard work.
How easy it was to make people happy, when you didn't want or need anything from them.
You're supposed to get tired planting bulbs. But it's an agreeable tiredness.
Much of the activity we think of as writing is, actually, getting ready to write.
I work continuously within the shadow of failure. For every novel that makes it to my publisher's desk, there are at least five or six that died on the way. And even with the ones I do finish, I think of all the ways they might have been better.
At times. . . one is downright thankful for the self-absorption of other people.
What did a few ripples in the flesh matter when, all too soon, now or later, that flesh would be making its return journey to dust?
What kind of a world do we live in that has room for dog yoga but not for Esperanto?
I usually find stuff that I hope no one really knows or cares about. If I'm ripping off something that's already brilliant, what's the point?
Let the people know the truth and the country is safe.
Success leaves clues, and if you sow the same seeds, youll reap the same rewards.