
Believe it or not. This really has nothing to do with writing, but today, a friend stared down at my desk and picked up my old Canon 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.
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.
Books aren’t written, they’re rewritten. Including your own. It is one of the hardest things to accept, especially after the seventh rewrite hasn’t quite done it.
A good novel tells us the truth about its hero; but a bad novel tells us the truth about its author.
If my poetry aims to achieve anything, it’s to deliver people from the limited ways in which they see and feel.
In Hollywood, the woods are full of people that learned to write but evidently can’t read. If they could read their stuff, they’d stop writing.
A writer without interest or sympathy for the foibles of his fellow man is not conceivable as a writer.
A true author, no matter the medium, is an artist with godlike knowledge of his subject, and the proof of his authorship is that his pages smack of authority.
Every writer with half a brain knows to surround himself or herself with editors who are smarter, far more articulate and infinitely better looking.
Writing has laws of perspective, of light and shade, just as painting does, or music. If you are born knowing them, fine. If not, learn them. Then rearrange the rules to suit yourself.
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.”

























