I'm always leaving, but I never have anywhere to go.
Everything one reads is nourishment of some sort - good food or junk food - and one assumes it all goes in and has its way with your brain cells.
If I had a staff of even one person, or could tolerate a small amphetamine habit, or entertain the possibility of weekly blood transfusions, or had been married to Vera Nabokov, or had a housespouse of even minimal abilities, a literary life would be easier to bring about. (In my mind I see all your male readers rolling their eyes. But your female ones - what is that? Are they nodding in agreement? Are their fists in the air?)
I've come to realize that life, while being everything, is also strangely not much. Except when the light shines on it a different way and then you realize it's a lot after all!
Love is the answer, said the songs, and that's OK. It was OK, I supposed, as an answer. But no more than that. It was not a solution; it wasn't really even an answer, just a reply.
You know, as fiction writers, if our instincts are off, we can't pay our bills.
All the world's a stage we're going through.
Sometimes words are just music themselves. Like 'Chicago' is a very musical sounding name.
The great thing about having a serialized drama (like 'Sons of Anarchy') is that I'm allowed to bring up events and circumstances that have happened in the past in other episodes to show that this kind of violence doesn't happen in a vacuum. It has ramifications. It has repercussions. Whether it's a week from now or five years from now, you know it will play out. Nothing is ever tied up into a perfect knot.
I had no issues with lesbians, but I didn't swing the bat that way, and I kind of resented getting molested.
I have no interest at all in food and drink, but only in slaughter and blood and the agonized groans of mangled men