Real life doesn't have to be convincing, but fiction does.

He had noticed that events were cowards: they didn't occur singly, but instead they would run in packs and leap out at him all at once.

I wonder if I shall ever see her again, and I realize that I scarcely care. I can feel the sheets beneath me, and the cold air on my chest. I feel fine. I feel absolutely fine. I feel nothing at all.

One word after another. That's the only way that novels get written and, short of elves coming in the night and turning your jumbled notes into Chapter Nine, it's the only way to do it. So keep on keeping on. Write another word and then another.

Continuity isn't actually something that I ever worry about. You use it where you need to, and you don't use it where you don't need to.

Sometimes you wake up. Sometimes the fall kills you. And sometimes, when you fall, you fly.

He was walking into Faerie, in search of a fallen star, with no idea how he would find the star, nor how to keep himself safe and whole as he tried. He looked back and fancied that he could see the lights of Wall behind him, wavering and glimmering as if in a heat-haze, but still inviting.