Mothman flew away from town, like a giant bat, and then disappeared from sight behind a thicket of skeletal autumn trees.

Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree

The best writers I've read possess oodles of self-doubt, yet claw their way up with each work and remain humble. Boastful ones, not so much.

When you print out your manuscript and read it, marking up with a pen, it sometimes feels like a criminal returning to the scene of a crime.

I've found the best way to revise your own work is to pretend that somebody else wrote it and then to rip the living shit out of it.

You're never as good a writer as you think you are, and you're never as bad. Just keep reading and writing, writing, writing.