“What things there are to write, if one could only write them! My mind is full of gleaming thoughts; gay moods and mysterious, moth-like meditations hover in my imagination, fanning their painted wings. They would make my fortune if I could catch them; but always the rarest, those freaked with azure and the deepest crimson, flutter away beyond my reach.”

“I write my stories for my children, the best fan club a writer could ever have. They keep me writing and make it fun.”

“With my guitar, I could write my own stories, my own poems, and my own destiny. No one could take away the feelings, the emotions or the truth of my notes. They could hide secrets and provoke images of words that never should be whispered. I could compose the melody of my aching heart and write into it my own happily ever after since no one seemed to think after all my suffering I deserved one. That's okay, I would make my own.”

“I could write stories; I could hide from the world and make my own instead of trying to change it or live in it. I could make paper people and I would love them too; I could make them almost real.”

“I'm Writing my stoy. But i'm also plotting my escape from this prison cell.This is my plan.I will do it with words.I will write them by day.I will write them by night.I will write them on the walls,the stalls, the halls.I will write them in big bold inkon posters i hang on the concrete blocks.I will write them on little pieces of paperI stuff on the mattress and the pillow.I will write them with fingersbent and cramped from use.I will write them in bloodif i have to,but only my own.And i will keep writing them,again, and again, and again,until i fill this prison cell so full of words,that the bars bend and buckle and burstbecause they cannot contain themAnd then I will be free.”

“When I suffer in mind, stories are my refuge; I take them like opium; and consider one who writes them as a sort of doctor of the mind.”