You throw a person in the river and then make a spectacle of jumping in to save them.
Only a few of us are going to be willing to break our own hearts by trading in the living beauty of imagination for the stark disappointment of words.
Why is it that we understand playing the cello will require work, but we attribute writing to the magic of inspiration?
Using your imagination is the one time in life you can really go anywhere.
Love was action. It came to you. It was not a choice.
The idea I pursue is the one that keeps coming back to me. The characters I think about as I'm falling asleep at night or when I'm driving to the grocery store are the one's I wind up writing about.