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I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all.
Writing fiction is the act of weaving a series of lies to arrive at a greater truth
A word is not the same with one writer as with another. One tears it from his guts. The other pulls it out of his overcoat pocket.
Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.
Power, for the writer….lies in his ability to reveal if only a little bit more about the complexity of humanity.
Fiction’s about what it is to be a fucking human being.
I was really excited about my current story last night, and explained it to Jake (to his credit, he gave me the eyebrows on the weird bits and approved of the less weird bits), and then in my inspired excitement I tossed up my hands and asked so why doesn’t everyone write and we looked at each other for a moment and he got a big wry smile and in unison we said cause it sucks and then I went on to try to explain that yes, 70-90% of the time it really REALLY sucks, but…I’ll be damned if that 10-30% isn’t worth it
I’m writing a book. I’ve got the page numbers done.
I write to dream; to connect with other human beings; to record; to clarify; to visit the dead. I have a kind of primitive need to leave a mark on the world.