I found this in the August 2nd, 2019, New York Times. Fun reading…if you’re not suffering from reader’s block:
I found this in the August 2nd, 2019, New York Times. Fun reading…if you’re not suffering from reader’s block:
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.
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.
Reading and weeping opens the door to one’s heart, but writing and weeping opens the window to one’s soul.
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.
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.”
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.
No one can write decently who is distrustful of the reader’s intelligence or whose attitude is patronizing.
Every writer with half a brain knows to surround himself or herself with editors who are smarter, far more articulate and infinitely better looking.
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.
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 is only natural to pattern yourself after someone. But you can’t just copy someone. If you like someone’s work, the important thing is to be exposed to everything that person has been exposed to.
Everybody walks past a thousand story ideas every day. The good writers are the ones who see five or six of them. Most people don’t see any.
The fact is, I don’t know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn’t collapse when you beat your head against it.
I haven’t got 10 rules that guarantee success, though I promise I’d share them if I did. The truth is that I found success by stumbling off alone in a direction most people thought was a dead end, breaking all the 1990s shibboleths about children’s books in the process.
There are three primal urges in human beings: Food, sex, and rewriting someone else’s play.


























