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1 " If you wanted to kill me, why haven't you smothered me in my sleep?" " No sport in that." She gestured towards the ceiling. " Can I expect to be strung up on that bar and gutted like a deer?" He looked up at the bar and frowned. " Too much sport. Lots of heave-hoeing. Big mess to clean up after. Instead, why don't you just drink the poison-laced whiskey?" He extended the glass toward her again and when she didn't move he said, " No? Okay then." He shot the drink. She might not want the edge taken off but he sure as hell did. "
2 " In the novelist's profession, as far as I'm concerned, there's no such thing as winning or losing. Maybe numbers of copies sold, awards won, and critics' praise serve as outward standards for accomplishment in literature, but none of them really matter. What's crucial is whether your writing attains the standards you've set for yourself. Failure to reach that bar is not something you can easily explain away. When it comes to other people, you can always come up with a reasonable explanation, but you can't fool yourself. In this sense, writing novels and running full marathons are very much alike. "
