I've heard it said that when you die you enter a room of bright light, and that you can smell bread baking just around the corner.

Ive lost much of my heart and the spark or fire that once created, or produced, the art of fiction.

To not pursue the thing one wants would be a waste of one's life.

I think a novelist must be more tender with living or 'real' people. The moral imperative of having been entrusted with their story looms before you every day, in every sentence.

I've heard it said that when you die you enter a room of bright light, and that you can smell bread baking just around the corner.

Fit in where you don't: make your own space..be different..don't give in. Exist somewhere you're not suppose to, or where you don't want to. Be your own men; do what you want, and don't hurt anybdoy

If it's wild to your own heart, protect it. Preserve it. Love it. And fight for it, and dedicate yourself to it, whether it's a mountain range, your wife, your husband, or even (god forbid) your job. It doesn't matter if it's wild to anyone else: if it's what makes your heart sing, if it's what makes your days soar like a hawk in the summertime, then focus on it. Because for sure, it's wild, and if it's wild, it'll mean you're still free. No matter where you are.