Janet Reid is a literary agent and she has a blog. It seems that many publishers, traditional as well as publish-on-demand, are Read More...
I have long felt that any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has just put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae or banana split.
Writers aren’t people exactly. Or, if they’re any good, they’re a whole lot of people trying so hard to be one person.
It begins with a character, usually, and once he stands up on his feet and begins to move, all I can do is trot along behind him with a paper and pencil, trying to keep up long enough to put down what he says and does.
It took me fifteen years to discover I had no talent for writing, but I couldn’t give it up because by that time I was too famous.
Asking a working writer what he thinks about critics is like asking a lamppost how it feels about dogs.
The reason 99% of all stories written are not bought by editors is very simple. Editors never buy manuscripts that are left on the closet shelf at home.
When writing a novel, that’s pretty much entirely what life turns into: “House burned down. Car stolen. Cat exploded. Did 1,500 easy words, so all in all it was a pretty good day.”
Reading and weeping opens the door to one’s heart, but writing and weeping opens the window to one’s soul.
I do not over-intellectualize the production process. I try to keep it simple: Tell the damned story.
Do not place a photograph of your favorite author on your desk, especially if the author is one of the famous ones who committed suicide.
Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.
What I loved most about calling myself a reporter was that it gave me an excuse to show up anyplace.
If one cannot enjoy reading a book over and over again, there is no use in reading it at all.
























