I sometimes imagine a great writer as a sort of God-surrogate: the writer is doing his or her human-best to emulate what God might think of is, if God was inclined to observe some human beings and present their activities in the form of a narrative.

Our first responsibility in all things is to preserve our goodness of heart - then and only then act.

I find that the great artists I've met are people who are so playfully invested in their process that, even if it doesn't come out the way they like, they still power through and even take energy from it.

I don't think much new ever happens. Most of us spend our days the same way people spent their days in the year 1000: walking around smiling, trying to earn enough to eat, while neurotically doing these little self-proofs in our head about how much better we are than these other slobs, while simultaneously, in another part of our brain, secretly feeling woefully inadequate to these smarter, more beautiful people.

I don't mind being criticized intelligently; although I don't love it.

There might be a different model for a literary community that's quicker, more real-time, and involves more spontaneity.

The chances of a person breaking through their own habits and sloth and limited mind to actually write something that gets out there and matters to people are slim.