Up there, up there in the vastness of space, in the void that is sky, up there is an enemy known as isolation. It sits there in the stars waiting, waiting with the patience of eons, forever waiting in the Twilight Zone.

The good agent probably is not the reader, he's just the guy who can put together a deal.

I guess we all have a little vaunting itch for immortality, I guess that must be it.

In almost everything I've written there is a thread of this: man's seemingly palpable need to dislike someone other than himself.

There's a marvelous and unique man named Frank Gilroy. He's the only writer I know who absolutely, pointedly refuses to do any changes that he doesn't feel are absolutely essential and totally in keeping with his own view and perspective. But not too many writers are that independent and that strong-willed.

There are weapons that are simply thoughts. For the record, prejudices can kill and suspicion can destroy.

The writer's no different. When he's rejected, that paper is rejected, in a sense, a sizeable fragment of the writer is rejected as well. It's a piece of himself that's being turned down.