To write, you need to find what you love.

Dont you know... I'm the boggyman."-St. Dane

I stood on the street, staring up at the most normal-looking house in the world. My house. I'd lived there my entire life. It was home. It was safe. It was haunted. The only other explanation was that I was demented. I couldn't say which I was rooting for.

Even at the end of the road, read the first sentence, there is a road. Even at the end of the road, a new road stretches out, endless and open, a road that may lead anywhere. To him who will find it, there is always a road.

To write, you need to find what you love.

It wasn't that I didn't trust Mark's flying, it was just that, okay, I didn't trust Mark's flying.

If you work hard doing the wrong job, is it really work? Or is it some kind of fakery?