A broken spoon may be a fork in disguise.

Kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings.

You couldn't get hold of the things you'd done and turn them right again. Such a power might be given to the gods, but it was not given to women and men, and that was probably a good thing. Had it been otherwise, people would probably die of old age still trying to rewrite their teens.

Everything that goes around comes around, they say, and although I've never been able to figure out who the mysteriously wise sages known as "they" might be, they're certainly right when it comes to time-travel.

Things were going very fast now. Too fast to suit him. Fantasy and reality had merged.

The quiet, singing voice of the rose. The song that promised all might be well, all might be well, that all manner of things might be well.

If the stuff you're writing is not for yourself, it won't work.