I found this in the August 2nd, 2019, New York Times. Fun reading…if you’re not suffering from reader’s block:
I found this in the August 2nd, 2019, New York Times. Fun reading…if you’re not suffering from reader’s block:
Do not place a photograph of your favorite author on your desk, especially if the author is one of the famous ones who committed suicide.
I haven’t got 10 rules that guarantee success, though I promise I’d share them if I did. The truth is that I found success by stumbling off alone in a direction most people thought was a dead end, breaking all the 1990s shibboleths about children’s books in the process.
Books aren’t written, they’re rewritten. Including your own. It is one of the hardest things to accept, especially after the seventh rewrite hasn’t quite done it.
Every writer with half a brain knows to surround himself or herself with editors who are smarter, far more articulate and infinitely better looking.
A writer without interest or sympathy for the foibles of his fellow man is not conceivable as a writer.
It took me fifteen years to discover I had no talent for writing, but I couldn’t give it up because by that time I was too famous.
The fact is, I don’t know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn’t collapse when you beat your head against it.
No one can write decently who is distrustful of the reader’s intelligence or whose attitude is patronizing.
Writing is the only thing that, when I do it, I don’t feel I should be doing something else.
If you have an idea that you genuinely think is good, don’t let some idiot talk you out of it.
You may be able to take a break from writing, but you won’t be able to take a break from being a writer.
Socially, a journalist fits in somewhere between a whore and a bartender. But spiritually he stands beside Galileo. He knows the world is round.