The World Was A World

One Thing That Worried Me Was How Writers Get Categorized And So They End Up Having To Write The Same Kind Of Book Again And Again. That Is Fine If It Is What You Want To Do, But I Would Rather Be Locked In The Trunk Of My Car With A Weasel Than Write The Same Book Every Three Years Until I Die.

The Sadness You Feel Is Not Your Own. It's His Sadness You Feel In Your Heart, Amy, For Missing You.

Rust, Corrosion, Wind, Rain. The Nibbling Teeth Of Mice And The Acrid Droppings Of Insects And The Devouring Jaws Of Years. The Was Of Nature Upon Machines, Of The Planet's Chaotic Forces Upon The Works Of Humankind. The Energy That Man Had Pulled From The Earth Was Being Inexorably Pulled Back Into It, Sucked Like Water Down A Drain. Before Long, If It Hadn't Happened Already, Not A Single High-tension Pole Would Be Left Standing On The Earth. Mankind Had Built A World That Would Take A Hundred Years To Die. A Century For The Last Light To Go Out.

A Baby Was A Fact. It Was A Being With A Mind And A Nature, And You Could Feel About It Any Way You Liked, But A Baby Wouldn't Care. Just By Existing, It Demanded That You Believe In A Future: The Future It Would Crawl In, Walk In, Live In. A Baby Was A Piece Of Time; It Was A Promise You Made That The World Made Back To You.

Every Book Has Got Its Challenges. You Run Into A Plot Point That You Can't Figure Out, Or A Scene That You Struggle To Write And Have To Write 50 Times.