You can always cheat an honest man, but it takes more work.

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

That is the eternal folly of man. To be chasing after the sweet flesh, without realizing that it is simply a pretty cover for the bones.

He wondered how it could have taken him so long to realize he cared for her, and he told her so, and she called him an idiot, and he declared that it was the finest thing that ever a man had been called.

My ideal reader is me. And yes, my ideal reader comes with me and is forgiving.

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

All writers have this vague hope that the elves will come in the night and finish any stories.