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

No one ever does live happily ever after, but we leave the children to find that out for themselves.

All is forgotten in the stone halls of the dead. These are the rooms of ruin where the spiders spin and the great circuits fall quiet, one by one.

It was life, often unsatisfying, frequently cruel, usually boring, sometimes beautiful, once in a while exhilarating.

Because things like this you can only ssay once. And you either get it wrong or right, it's the end either way, because it's too hard to ever try to say again.

I have to remind myself that some birds aren’t meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright.

A little talent is a good thing to have if you want to be a writer. But the only real requirement is the ability to remember every scar.