She Was Struggling Against A

Novel Writing Is The Slowest Art Form In The World. It Is Not A Sprint. It Is Not Even A Marathon. It Is A Series Of Marathons That Stretch Over And Over Across A Continent.

I Think Wars, Climate Change, All That Stuff Is Going To Move People. And So I Wanted To Say, "what If The Migration Apocalypse Occurs And It Isn't An Apocalypse At All?" Maybe We Will Still Find Ways To Be Happy And For Our Children And Grandchildren To Thrive And The World To Move On.

If It Takes You Seven Years To Write Each Novel, You Need A Patron. And I Would Rather Have My Corporate Self As My Patron Than Any Arts Council Or Bestower Of Grants.

I Commit Her To Memory. When I'm Alone, I Feel A Strange Yearning, The Hunger Of A Man Fasting Not Because He Believes But Because He's Ashamed. Not The Cleansing Hunger Of The Devout, But The Feverish Hunger Of The Hypocrite. I Let Her Go Every Evening Only Because There's Nothing I Can Do To Stop Her.

We Should Be Very Skeptical Of People Who Want To Place Limits On How We Express Ourselves.