Adults had the notion that juveniles needed to suffer. Only when they had suffered enough to wipe out most of their naturally joyous spirits and innocence were they staid enough to be considered mature. An adult was essentially a broken-down child.

Happy children do not seem to grow up to be writers.

Here's a secret: fictive text doesn't necessarily flow easily. Most of the time it's more like cutting a highway through a mountain. You just have to keep working with your pick, chipping away at the rock, making slow progress.

Never thought I'd see the day when Death was denied. That leaves taxes as the only certainty.

I never do a full outline, and if I did, I would not feel bound to it, because the view from inside a scene can be different from the view outside it. But neither do I just start writing and see what happens; I am far more disciplined than that.

I wish my readers took less of my time - about a third of my working time goes to them - but I love and need them all.

For our stories are not yet finished, and perhaps will never be.