Zane Grey

The difficulty, the ordeal, is to start.

No one connected intimately with a writer has any appreciation of his temperament, except to think him overdoing everything.

I am tired. My arm aches. My head boils. My feet are cold. But I am not aware of any weakness.

I love my work but do not know how I write it.

Love grows more tremendously full, swift, poignant, as the years multiply.

I am full of fire and passion. I am not ready yet for great concentration and passion.

I will see this game of life out to its bitter end.

I need this wild life, this freedom.

What is writing but an expression of my own life?

What makes life worth living? Better surely, to yield to the stain of suicide blood in me and seek forgetfulness in the embrace of cold dark death.

I arise full of eagerness and energy, knowing well what achievement lies ahead of me.

I confess that reading proofs is a pleasure. It stimulates and inspires me.