Chance smiled back at him, and “Well, can you think of anything else I could do with my life that could ever possibly be half this splendid, half thi… - Caitlín R. Kiernan

The world wants oatmeal. It is not my job to give the world oatmeal. It is my job not to be a hack. It is my job to try to make the world chew, lest its lazy jaw muscles atrophy and its collective mandible withers and all its teeth fall out. It is my job, as a writer, to give the world toffee and peanut brittle and tough steak and celery. I write peanut butter sandwiches, not oatmeal. And every time some dolt whines, "I'm confused" or "I don't understand" or "This doesn't make any sense," I should smile and know that I'm doing my job. Not because it is my job to be opaque, but because it is not my job to be transparent.

— ¿Ella te amaba? — Ella amaba a la persona que pensó que era yo, o a la persona que ella pensó que era yo cuando nos conocimos. Pero no, no creo que me amara. Ni siquiera sé si me conocía. No creo que yo la conociera a ella.

It is not the task of the writer to “tell all,” or even to decide what to leave in, but to decide what to leave out.