I think there is only one way to write fiction - alone, in a room, without interruption or any distraction.
The tough thing about writing is you go into a room alone, you close the door and you do your work.
You can get help from teachers, but you are going to have to learn a lot by yourself, sitting alone in a room.
Anyone who writes knows that ultimately the majority of your time is spent alone in a room with a piano or a guitar, no matter what the project is.
The paperweight was the room he was in, and the coral was Julia's life and his own, fixed in a sort of eternity at the heart of the crystal.
Her own misery filled her heart—there was no room in it for other people's sorrow.
When the body escaped mutilation, seldom did the heart go to the grave unscarred.
Danger, like a third man, was standing in the room.
It was a room full of ghosts, arranged in readiness for days that would never happen.
(Jeez, get a locked room on unsanctified ground, you two.)
She was made for untidy rooms and rumpled beds.
The malpractice for advice-giving is like five times as much as a craniotomy.
Maybe Cubism started this way. Memory re-arranging a face.
Safe, I decided, didn't leave much room for fun.
The whole room said, "Admire without touching anything and then get out.
Great. I'd been dumped in Hell's waiting room.
He would die in this room, buried alive by the weight of his life.
Nearly all men have weak hearts, in one way or another.
Sometimes I think my writing sounds like I walked out of the room and left the typewriter running.
99 percent of what you see is not what comes in through the eyes. It is what you infer about that room.
I'll put candles all over the room, then light then, and get to it. I call it my 'vibe in a bag.'
