And like most middle-aged people who hear the clock ticking in their lives, I had come to resent a waste or theft of my time that was greater than any theft of my goods or money.

You do it a day at a time. You write as well as you can, you put it in the mail, you leave it under submission, you never leave it at home.

But perhaps age has taught me that the earth is still new, molten at the core and still forming, that black leaves in the winter forest will crawl with life in the spring, that our story is ongoing and it is indeed a crime to allow the heart's energies to dissipate with the fading of light on the horizon.

Success, like fashion, is a fickle companion and can leave one in the wink of an eye.

The best thing about being a best-selling writer is being a best-selling writer. More seriously, today I can write full time and pay the bills.

My experience has been that people who die for causes have few friends in death.

Age is a peculiar kind of thief. It slips up on you and steps inside your skin and is so quiet and methodical in its work that you never realize it has stolen your youth until you look into the mirror one morning and see a man you don't recognize.