Often, I would catch it in the mirror as I stepped out of the shower. A spectre, it floated as a black spot in my vision, as though it were something lodged in the corner of my eye and not, instead, nestled malignly below the skin. Against the white of the sheets it shocked me, like a puddle of blood marring the clean cotton. I would sneak glances at it, trace its uneven border with one outstretched finger, as if a child on the brink of discovery.
If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of the iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water.
When I write fiction, I understand people.
There was hopeful, corny graffiti on a rock: ‘I’VE SPENT ALL MY LIFE IN SEARCH OF YOUR LOVE.’
Whenever we took Deuce to meet anyone, we made sure his hands were hidden.
I know few towns which inspire me with so great disgust and contempt.
I was embarrassed to take Deuce home.
Delay is natural to a writer. He is like a surfer—he bides his time, waits for the perfect wave on which to ride in.
The ending constantly revises itself.
The broken fellows will call to us but we’ll turn deaf while we shrivel in the afternoon. Our magic will dissipate just in time for the saws to cut through us and we’ll bleed and bleed to show who’s grounded.
They say fiction requires conflict; well, when New York was a war of all against all, you had all the conflict you could handle any time you put your feet on the street.
All stories are old stories, you said.
It is easy to see the beginnings of things, and harder to see the ends.
It’s not Christmas without you…
| Tracy: | Don't tell me you've forsaken your beloved whiskey and whiskeys. |
|---|---|
| Dexter: | No, no, no, no. I've just changed their color, that's all. I'm going for the pale pastel shades now. They're more becoming to me. How about you, Mr. Connor? You drink, don't you? Alcohol, I mean. |
| Mike: | Oh, a little. |
| Dexter: | A little, "little." And you a writer? I thought all writers drank to excess and beat their wives... You know one time, I think I secretly wanted to be a writer. |
Putting this story (and myself) to bed. The submitting fun begins tomorrow.
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