I was keenly conscious of the comrades-in-arms who had fallen with me. A bond surpassing by a hundredfold that which I had known in life bound me to them. I felt a sense of inexpressible relief and realized that I had feared, more than death, separation from them. I apprehended that excruciating war survivor's torment, the sense of isolation and self-betrayal experienced by those who had elected to cling yet to breath when their comrades had let loose their grip.

In the hierarchy, the artist faces outward. Meeting someone new he asks himself, What can this person do for me? How can this person advance my standing? In the hierarchy, the artist looks up and looks down. The one place he can't look is that place he must: within.

Anything that draws attention to ourselves through pain-free or artificial means is a manifestation of Resistance.

You are a writer when you tell yourself you are. No one else's opinion matters. Screw them. You are when you say you are.

Figure out what scares you the most and do that first.

Writers think in metaphors. Editors work in metaphors. A great reader reads in metaphors.

The amateur tweets. The pro works.