Writing is the only thing that, when I do it, I don’t feel I should be doing something else.
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.
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.
My aim is to put down what I see and what I feel in the best and simplest way I can tell it.
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.
A writer without interest or sympathy for the foibles of his fellow man is not conceivable as a writer.
What I loved most about calling myself a reporter was that it gave me an excuse to show up anyplace.
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.
If my poetry aims to achieve anything, it’s to deliver people from the limited ways in which they see and feel.
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.
There are three primal urges in human beings: Food, sex, and rewriting someone else’s play.
Asking a working writer what he thinks about critics is like asking a lamppost how it feels about dogs.
Reading and weeping opens the door to one’s heart, but writing and weeping opens the window to one’s soul.

























