Phillip look into Ray's eyes. He saw compassion and hope. And he saw himself mirrored back, bleeding in a dirty gutter on a street where life was worth less than a dime bag. Sick, tired, petrified, Phillip dropped his head into his hands. "What's the point?" "You're the point, son." Ray ran his hand over Phillip's hair. "You're the point.

I don't believe for one moment you can write well what you wouldn't read for pleasure.

I think sometimes fate cuts you a break. Like it says, okay, you've had enough of that crap, so it's time you fell into something nice. See what you make out of it.

Didn't people consider what could happen if armies of farm animals united in revolt?

A writer never finds the time to write. A writer makes it. If you don't have the drive, the discipline, and the desire, then you can have all the talent in the world, and you aren't going to finish a book.

...but even strong women need an arm to lean on now and then. (Anna Whitney in Glory in Death)

I wouldn't waste a day, not an hour, not a moment. Take what you want and damn caution. Live, enjoy. Feed ravenously. Or the biggest regret you'll have at the end of your life is wasted time.