There is the fear that you somehow neglected to say what was really yours to say.

Each morning my characters greet me with misty faces willing, though chilled, to muster for another day's progress through the dazzling quicksand the marsh of blank paper.

All those little congruences and arabesques you prepared with such delicate anticipatory pleasure are gobbled up as if by pigs at a pastry cart.

I once did something right. I played first-rate basketball. I really did. And after you're first-rate at something, no matter what, it kind of takes the kick out of being second-rate.

An affair wants to spill, to share its glory with the world. No act is so private it does not seek applause.

Fiction is nothing less than the subtlest instrument for self-examination and self-display that Mankind has invented yet.

Days, pale slices between nights, they blend, not exactly alike, transparencies so lightly tinted that only stacked all together do they darken to a fatal shade.