Write what you love and love what you write.

He had never liked October. Ever since he had first lay in the autumn leaves before his grandmother's house many years ago and heard the wind and saw the empty trees. It had made him cry, without a reason. And a little of that sadness returned each year to him. It always went away with spring. But, it was a little different tonight. There was a feeling of autumn coming to last a million years. There would be no spring. ("The October Game")

Not to write, for many of us, is to die.

Ideas result from the collision of metaphors inside the head.

The sun burnt every day. It burnt Time. The world rushed in a circle and turned on its axis and time was busy burning the years and the people anyway, without any help from him. So if he burnt things with the firemen, and the sun burnt Time, that meant everything burnt!

It doesn't matter what you do...so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away.

Anything you dream is fiction, and anything you accomplish is science, the whole history of mankind is nothing but science fiction.