As far as I'm concerned, the entire reason for becoming a writer is not having to get up in the morning.

Tomorrow may be hell, but today was a good writing day, and on the good writing days nothing else matters.

Because, if one is writing novels today, concentrating on the beauty of the prose is right up there with concentrating on your semi-colons, for wasted effort.

I liked myths. They weren't adult stories and they weren't children's stories. They were better than that. They just were.

I only have two kinds of dreams: the bad and the terrible. Bad dreams I can cope with. They're just nightmares, and the end eventually. I wake up. The terrible dreams are the good dreams. In my terrible dreams, everything is fine. I am still with the company. I still look like me. None of the last five years ever happened. Sometimes I'm married. Once I even had kids. I even knew their names. Everything's wonderful and normal and fine. And then I wake up, and I'm still me. And I'm still here. And that is truly terrible.

The house smelled musty and damp, and a little sweet, as if it were haunted by the ghosts of long-dead cookies.

It's easier to believe in aliens than in gods.