The wind makes you ache is some place that is deeper than your bones. It may be that it touches something old in the human soul, a chord of race memory that says Migrate or die - migrate or die.

Your job isn't to find these ideas but to recognize them when they show up.

Sometimes stories cry out to be told in such loud voices that you write them just to shut them up.

How else could he go on, except with merciful incomprehension held before him like a shield? How could anyone?

Talent renders the whole idea of rehearsal meaningless; when you find something at which you are talented, you do it (whatever it is) until your fingers bleed or your eyes are ready to fall out of your head. Even when no one is listening (or reading or watching), every outing is a bravura performance, because you as the creator are happy. Perhaps even ecstatic.

I can see your dirtypillows.

He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts.