If my poetry aims to achieve anything, it’s to deliver people from the limited ways in which they see and feel.
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.
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.
Critics are people who sit on the mountaintop and look down on the battlefield. When the fighting is finished, they take it upon themselves to come down from the mountain and shoot the survivors.
My aim is to put down what I see and what I feel in the best and simplest way I can tell it.
A writer without interest or sympathy for the foibles of his fellow man is not conceivable as a writer.
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.
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.
Writing is the only thing that, when I do it, I don’t feel I should be doing something else.
Every writer with half a brain knows to surround himself or herself with editors who are smarter, far more articulate and infinitely better looking.
I get up in the morning, torture a typewriter until it screams, then stop.
I have a structured songwriting process. I start with the music and try to come up with musical ideas, then the melody, then the hook, and the lyrics come last.
I write the last line, and then I write the line before that. I find myself writing backwards for a while, until I have a solid sense of how that ending sounds and feels. You have to know what your voice sounds like at the end of the story, because it tells you how to sound when you begin.
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.
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.
Asking a working writer what he thinks about critics is like asking a lamppost how it feels about dogs.

























