I'm a writer first and an editor second... or maybe third or even fourth. Successful editing requires a very specific set of skills, and I don't claim to have all of them at my command.

I've read short stories that are as dense as a 19th century novel and novels that really are short stories filled with a lot of helium.

I'm dense when it comes to discouragement.

I do have a small collection of traditional SF ideas which I've never been able to sell. I'm known as a fantasy writer and neither my agent nor my editors want to risk my brand by jumping genre.

Ideas aren't magical; the only tricky part is holding on to one long enough to get it written down.

A good short-story writer has an instinct for sketching in just enough background to ground the specific story.

When I'm not writing or tweaking my computer, I do embroidery. When I'm not plunging into the past, tweaking, or embroidering, I'm reading books about history, computers, or embroidery.

During the many centuries that magic, here on this planet, was presumed to have worked, there were at least as many theories as to how magic worked as there were cultures and religions.

There is nothing that compares to an unexpected round of applause.

I think my prose reads as if English were my second language. By the time I get to the end of a paragraph, I'm dodging bullets and gasping for breath.

That bedrock faith that I could write was what blinded me to attempts to discourage me.

It was safe to assume he'd not only read the play but then re-read it, cross-referenced the annotations, and probably joined an online chat group called Buds of the Bard or something equally nerdy

No man, ever indulged more freely or happily in that playful facetiousness which gratifies all without wounding any.

Time define the moment.

I'd rather love a million times and have my heart broken every time, than hold a permanitely empty heart forever.

The problem with improv is that you're letting an idiot tell you what to do.

Overdressing is the first cousin of trying too hard.

Life is just a bowl of pits.

Of all the various out-door recreations I have tried, when it comes to genuine, exciting sport, give me hunting with a camera.

To love or have loved, that is enough. Ask nothing further. There is no other pearl to be found in the dark folds of life.

Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?