I guess real maturity, which most of us never achieve, is when you realize that you're not the center of the universe.

A friend of mine who writes history books said to me that he thought that the two creatures most to be pitied were the spider and the novelist - their lives hanging by a thread spun out of their own guts. But in some ways I think writers of fiction are the creatures most to be envied, because who else besides the spider is allowed to take that fragile thread and weave it into a pattern? What a gift of grace to be able to take the chaos from within and from it to create some semblance of order.

I can't believe there will ever be a time when the book is truly obsolete. It is the perfect technology and feeds the soul.

If you could hold your nose to avoid a stink, or close your eyes to cut out a sight, why not shut off your brain to avoid a thought?

Impressed. Lord. He had nearly drowned.

If you're so afraid of your imagination that you stifle it, how are you going to know God? How can you imagine heaven?

Since my first novel was rescued from a slush pile, it makes me sad that most publishing houses no longer accept unsolicited manuscripts. Nor are many willing to take chances on novels that are not deemed immediately "marketable."