My paintings are very strange - large and empty, like walls. Just the opposite of my writing, which is rich and juicy.

If love eats the donut, does time eat the hole?

The one thing emphasized in any creative writing course is 'write what you know,' and that automatically drives a wooden stake through the heart of imagination. If they really understood the mysterious process of creating fiction, they would say, 'You can write about anything you can imagine.'

What are the odds that two separate writers, strangers, a thousand miles apart, would each invent fictions in which guys take girls to an esoteric frog lecture on their first date? If that isn't synchronicity, it's something equally as weird.

Rules such as "Write what you know," and "Show, don't tell," while doubtlessly grounded in good sense, can be ignored with impunity by any novelist nimble enough to get away with it. There is, in fact, only one rule in writing fiction: Whatever works, works.

There are many things worth living for, a few things worth dying for, and nothing worth killing for.

There are essential and inessential insanities. The later are solar in character, the former are linked to the moon.