I Write Out Of Revenge.

Nobody Knows Anything...... Not One Person In The Entire Motion Picture Field Knows For A Certainty What's Going To Work. Every Time Out It's A Guess And, If You're Lucky, An Educated One.

The Tears That Kept Buttercup Company The Remainder Of The Day Were Not At All Like Those That Had Blinded Her Into The Tree Trunk. Those Were Noisy And Hot; They Pulsed. These Were Silent And Steady And All They Did Was Remind Her That She Wasn’t Good Enough. She Was Seventeen, And Every Male She’d Ever Known Had Crumbled At Her Feet And It Meant Nothing. The One Time It Really Mattered, She Wasn’t Good Enough.

You Have To Protect Your Writing Time. You Have To Protect It To The Death.

No. Not Yet. A Craftsman Only. But I Dream To Be An Artist. I Pray That Someday, If I Work With Enough Care, If I Am Very Very Lucky, I Will Make A Weapon That Is A Work Of Art. Call Me An Artist Then, And I Will Answer.

There Is No Room In My Body For Anything But You.