The building of the architecture of a novel - the craft of it - is something I never tire of.

It is amazing to me, now, how such wild imaginings and philosophies - inspired by a night charged with frights and calamities - made such perfectly good sense to Owen Meany and me, but good friends are nothing to each other if they are not supportive.

The gardener had a dread of small women; he'd always imagined them to have an anger disproportionate to their size.

wherever the TV glows, there sits someone who isn't reading.

My life as a writer consists of 1/8 talent and 7/8 discipline.

But who can distinguish between falling in love and imagining falling in love? Even genuinely falling in love is an act of the imagination.

When writing a novel, I'm not smart enough to know how to foreshadow something if I don't know what it is.