If you’re making mistakes it means you’re out there doing something.
Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn’t it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses. You build up a whole armor, for years, so nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life… You give them a piece of you. They didn’t ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn’t your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like ‘maybe we should be just friends’ or ‘how very perceptive’ turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It’s a soul- hurt, a body- hurt, a real gets- inside- you- and- rips- you- apart pain. Nothing should be able to do that. Especially not love. I hate love.
Everybody is going to be dead one day, just give them time.
If you only write when inspired, you may be a fairly decent poet, but you’ll never be a novelist.
If you want to imagine the future, imagine a boy and his dog and his friends. And a summer that never ends.
As an author, I’ve never forgotten how to daydream.
For love is no part of the dreamworld. Love belongs to desire, and desire is always cruel.
Ideas are more difficult to kill than people, but they can be killed, in the end.