Stephenie Meyer can’t write worth a darn. She’s not very good.

I can't understand why people use religion to hurt each other when there's already so much pain in the world.

If you intend to write as truthfully as you can, your days as a member of polite society are numbered.

Death, but not for you, gunslinger. Never for you. You darkle. You tinct. May I be brutally frank? You go on.

Guys, gals, now hear this: No one wants to take away your hunting rifles. No one wants to take away your shotguns. No one wants to take away your revolvers, and no one wants to take away your automatic pistols, as long as said pistols hold no more than ten rounds. If you can't kill a home invader (or your wife, up in the middle of the night to get a snack from the fridge) with ten shots, you need to go back to the local shooting range.

The idea for a novel is like a little tiny fire in a dark night. And, one by one, the characters come and stand around it and warm their hands.

Talent is a dull knife that will cut nothing unless it is wielded with great force.