For 10 Or 11 Years,

Only Bad Writers Think That Their Work Is Really Good.

Imagine That You Are Dying. If You Had A Terminal Disease Would You ­finish This Book? Why Not? The Thing That Annoys This 10-weeks-to-live Self Is The Thing That Is Wrong With The Book. So Change It. Stop Arguing With Yourself. Change It. See? Easy. And No One Had To Die.

Here We Go Again. Always A Few Drinks, But Sometimes Even Sober, We Play The Unhappiness Game; Endlessly Round And Round. Ding Dong. Tighter And Tighter. On And On. Push Me Pull You. Come Here And I'll Tell You How Much I Hate You. Hang On A Minute While I Leave You. All The While We Know We Are Missing The Point, Whatever The Point Used To Be.

The Only Way To Write A Book, I’m Fond Of Telling People, Is To Actually Write A Book. That’s How You Write A Book.

I'm Starting To Think My Narrators' Sentences Are Getting Too Big For Them, And They Are Getting To Sound A Bit Samey And, More Disturbingly, A Bit Too Much Like Me.