My sustenance is information. My interventions are hidden. I increase as I learn. I compute, so I am.

I'd never been to a science-fiction convention until I became a professional writer.

In the deepest places, where physical norms collapse under the crushing water, bodies still fall softly through the dark, days after their vessels have capsized. They decay on their long journey down. Nothing will hit the black sand at the bottom of the world but algae-covered bones.

We would never call inexplicable little insights hunches, for fear of drawing the universe's attention. But they happened, and you knew you had been in the proximity of one that had come through if you saw a detective kiss his or her fingers and touch his or her chest where a pendant to Warsha, patron saint of inexplicable inspirations, would, theoretically, hang.

Part of the appeal of the fantastic is taking ridiculous ideas very seriously and pretending they're not absurd.

My Google-fu is strong.

Everything has changed. I cannot be used anymore. Those days are over. I know too much. What I do now, I do for me.