Talent is cheaper than table salt. What separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work.
Write with the door closed, rewrite with the door open.
Let me tell you something my friend. Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope can drive a man insane.
Are you sure self-pity is a luxury you can afford, Jack?
To write is human, to edit is divine.
Might as well try to drink the ocean with a spoon as argue with a lover.
The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want for nothing. He makes me lie down in the green pastures. He greases up my head with oil. He gives me kung-fu in the face of my enemies. Amen
Schizoid behavior is a pretty common thing in children. It's accepted, because all we adults have this unspoken agreement that children are lunatics.
The place where you made your stand never mattered. Only that you were there... and still on your feet.
People who try hard to do the right thing always seem mad.
A man with a good wife is the luckiest of God's creatures...
Sometimes human places, create inhuman monsters.
Wanting more is just a recipe for heartache.
Kids, fiction is the truth inside the lie, and the truth of this fiction is simple enough: the magic exists.
Books are the perfect entertainment: no commercials, no batteries, hours of enjoyment for each dollar spent. What I wonder is why everybody doesn't carry a book around for those inevitable dead spots in life.
For me, that emotional payoff is what it's all about. I want you to laugh or cry when you read a story...or do both at the same time. I want your heart, in other words. If you want to learn something, go to school.
It's hard to let go. Even when what you're holding onto is full of thorns, it's hard to let go. Maybe especially then.
Hearts can break. Yes, hearts can break. Sometimes I think it would be better if we died when they did, but we don't.
He began to cry, not hysterically or screaming as people cry when concealed rage with tears, but with continuous sobs who has just discovered that he's alone and will be for long. He cried because safety and reason seemed to have left the world. Loneliness was a reality, but in this situation madness was also remotely a possibility.
Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.
I don't mean that creative people are somehow finer, or more sensitive, and thus have finer, more sensitive nervous breakdowns - you can save that horseshit for the Sylvia Plath worshipers. It's just that creative people have creative breakdowns.
God wiped snot out of his nose and that was you.
When all else fails, give up and go to the library.
Discipline and constant work are the whetstones upon which the dull knife of talent is honed until it becomes sharp enough, hopefully, to cut through even the toughest meat and gristle.
Talent in cheaper than table salt. What separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work.
Alone. Yes, that's the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym.
Love isn't soft, like the poets say. Love has teeth which bite and the wounds never close.
I was in enough to get along with people. I was never socially inarticulate. Not a loner. And that saved my life, saved my sanity. That and the writing. But to this day I distrust anybody who thought school was a good time. Anybody.
When his life was ruined, his family killed, his farm destroyed, Job knelt down on the ground and yelled up to the heavens, 'Why god? Why me?' and the thundering voice of God answered, 'There's just something about you that pisses me off.'
The unconscious mind writes poetry if it's left alone.
Writing is not life, but I think that sometimes it can be a way back to life.
No good friends, no bad friends; only people you want, need to be with. People who build their houses in your heart.
Talent is never static. It's always growing or dying.
The thing under my bed waiting to grab my ankle isn't real. I know that, and I also know that if I'm careful to keep my foot under the covers, it will never be able to grab my ankle.
The town kept its secrets, and the Marsten House brooded over it like a ruined king.
If a fear cannot be articulated, it can't be conquered.
Description begins in the writer's imagination, but should finish in the reader's.
Ninety-five percent of people who walk the earth are simply inert. One percent are saints, and one percent are assholes. The other three percent are people who do what they say they can do.
Sorry is the Kool-Aid of human emotions. It's what you say when you spill a cup of coffee or throw a gutter ball when you're bowling with the girls in the league. True sorrow is as rare as true love.