“It is sort of weird being honored for the worst day of your life.”

I really had to decide why I was writing. I had no interest in going back to law; I very briefly – for about six hours – considered going to get my MBA, but in the end, I realized that the only work I really wanted to do was write.

I started publishing stories in small magazines early on, but after seven or eight or nine years you feel like you need a little more than that to show for your efforts.

I think if you spend much time dwelling on influence you can get self-conscious about every line you write. That’s a great way to freeze up.

I thought when I started writing that I’d have a book out in four or five years, and as it became apparent that that wasn’t going to happen, I became increasingly frustrated and unsure of myself.

I realized I was never going to have any peace with myself unless I made an honest stab at trying to write.

Maybe the light’s at the other end of the tunnel.

I took two fiction-writing courses in college and majored in literature. I felt that I had a knack though I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a talent. But it scared me. I felt it was a childish thing wanting to write and that I would forget about it eventually.

I have a horror of being self-indulgent and wasting time, and there is that risk in doing this kind of work. Are you totally deluded in sitting down at a desk every day and trying to write something? Is it self-indulgent, or might it possibly lead to something worthwhile?

I never listen to music when I’m writing.

By the end of the first decade of writing, I considered myself a confirmed failure in the eyes of the world.

The funny thing is, about the time I let go of any aspiration toward worldly success, that’s about the time I started writing decent work.

There was no such thing as perfection in this world, only moments of such extreme transparency that you forgot yourself, a holy mercy if there ever was one.

If a person wants to be of any use to himself, he better insist on getting his fair share of beauty and pleasure, and if there’s something about the system that’s keeping him from getting his share, then I think he’s well within his rights to fight to change that.

I’m ashamed and embarrassed to say that I’ve read very little of David Foster Wallace’s work. It’s a huge gap in my education, one of many.

If you could figure out how to live with family then you’d gone a long way toward finding your peace.

It took me 10 years to write a story that pleased me – that I could look at after it was published and not cringe.

I’m living everyday like a hustle, another drug to juggle. Another day, another struggle.

You don’t remember days, you remember moments.

I’m famous today. People like me today. Might not like me tomorrow. You can’t count on it.

Beginning with the early dawn of each day, I will radiate joy to everyone I meet. I will be mental sunshine for all who cross my path. Before the unfailing light of my cheer, darkness will take flight.

One must wait until the evening to see how splendid the day was; one cannot judge life until death.

I know I’ll look back on these days and wonder why were some so hard? I know already that they’ll be, the best I’ve ever had. I know I’ll look back on these seemingly impossible days and wish for them back. And I’m finally starting to understand what it feels like to be really loved.

Living for today will bring about dying for today. You can’t just think, ‘I’m going to die anyway,’ because that’s what’s stopping us from moving forward.

The day soldiers stop bringing you their problems is the day you have stopped leading them.