[Wishing her mother had named her Beulah:] At least you did not sit on your beulah.

writing is the loneliest job in the world. There's always that frustrating chasm to bridge between the concept and the writing of it. We're a harassed tribe, we writers.

The creative writer is usually captive to his next book.

we dig our graves with our teeth.

Life owes me a living worth living. Yes, Eden regarded life as her debtor, she its relentless paymaster.

Family. A snug kind of word.

Isn't success ridiculously easy, once it begins to succeed? ... after the strain and sweat and pushing until the very groins of your being shrieked protest, something like momentum happened. It took your wits and your concentration and your continued willing sweat, of course, to keep it going, but the success of success had ball bearings.