Write. Finish things. Get them published. Write something else while you're waiting for someone to publish the first thing.

Idris: Are all people like this? The Doctor: Like what? Idris: So much bigger on the inside.

I wondered if that was true: if they were all really children wrapped up in adult bodies, like children's books hidden in the middle of dull, long adult books, the kind with no pictures or conversations.

When you dream, sometimes you remember. When you wake, you always forget.

What would be the fun in doing things you know are going to work?

But standing in that hallway, it was all coming back to me. Memories were waiting at the edges of things, beckoning to me.

Fiction is the lie that tells the truth, after all.