Elmore Leonard Quotes

If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.

Elmore Leonard's Ten Rules of Writing 1. Never open a book with weather. 2. Avoid prologues. 3. Never use a verb other than "said" to carry dialogue. 4. Never use an adverb to modify the verb "said”…he admonished gravely. 5. Keep your exclamation points under control. You are allowed no more than two or three per 100,000 words of prose. 6. Never use the words "suddenly" or "all hell broke loose." 7. Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly. 8. Avoid detailed descriptions of characters. 9. Don't go into great detail describing places and things. 10. Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip. My most important rule is one that sums up the 10. If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.

My most important piece of advice to all you would-be writers: When you write, try to leave out all the parts readers skip.

Psychopaths... people who know the differences between right and wrong, but don't give a shit. That's what most of my characters are like.

"Wonderful things can happen", Vincent said, "when you plant seeds of distrust in a garden of assholes."

It doesn't have to make sense, it just has to sound like it does.

Listen, Stephen King used to write in the washroom of his trailer after his kids went to sleep. Harlan Ellison wrote in the stall of a bathroom of his barracks during boot camp. Elmore Leonard got up at 5 AM every morning to write before work. Every time my alarm goes off at 5 AM and I don’t want to get up, or I would rather sit down after work and play a videogame, I think about those guys. Take care of your family. They need you and love you. Make time for them. Then stop screwing around and finish your damn book.

I spent most of my dough on booze, broads and boats and the rest I wasted.

Write the book the way it should be written, then give it to somebody to put in the commas and shit.

Like Elmore Leonard and Donald Westlake and Robert B. Parker and oh so many others, I want to die with my boots on, facedown on my keyboard if possible, in the middle of a sentence.

I started out of course with Hemingway when I learned how to write. Until I realized Hemingway doesn't have a sense of humor. He never has anything funny in his stories.

I'm very much aware in the writing of dialogue, or even in the narrative too, of a rhythm. There has to be a rhythm with it … Interviewers have said, you like jazz, don’t you? Because we can hear it in your writing. And I thought that was a compliment.

Fate was working its ass off when it got us all together.

I always felt, you don’t have a good time doin crime, you may as well find a job.

And she thought if you don't have the desire to fight or wait for something there's no reason for being on earth.

A man can be in two different places and he will be two different men. Maybe if you think of more places he will be more men, but two is enough for now.

There were a lot of terms you had to learn, as opposed to the shylock business where all you had to know how to say was 'Give me the fuckin money.

I can't allow what we learned in English composition to disrupt the sound and rhythm of the narrative.

There are cities that get by on their good looks, offer climate and scenery, views of mountains or oceans, rockbound or with palm trees; and there are cities like Detroit that have to work for a living, whose reason for being might be geographical but whose growth is based on industry, jobs. Detroit has its natural attractions: lakes all over the place, an abundance of trees and four distinct seasons for those who like variety in their weather, everything but hurricanes and earth-quakes. But it’s never been the kind of city people visit and fall in love with because of its charm or think, gee, wouldn’t this be a nice place to live.

It's my attempt to remain invisible, not distract the reader from the story with obvious writing.

But when you begin with bullshit the conclusion you reach is still bullshit.

Don't go into great detail describing places and things, unless you're ­Margaret Atwood and can paint scenes with language. You don't want descriptions that bring the action, the flow of the story, to a standstill.

You never know what somebody might tell you,' Chris said, 'when they think you're somebody else.

There’s something happening here, I know it. It’s right in front of my face, but I just can’t see it.

Elmore Leonard famously said that a story is real life with the boring parts left out.

Avoid Prologues. They can be annoying, especially a prologue following an introduction that comes after a foreword.

all over the world...the past was being wiped out by condominiums.

You thinkin bout the time I shot you and you rose from the dead? It only happens once in your life." He turned to Carol again and she said: "Were you actually aiming at his hat?" "I hit it didn't I?

Do you want me to tell you what I give a shit about at age sixty-five', Cullen said, 'and what I don't give a shit about?' (page 262)

when you're really cute that's all you have to be, you make a career out of it. someone asks you what you do, you say, 'nothing. i'm cute.

I don’t think writers compete, I think they’re all doing separate things in their own style.

She wondered what he looked like with his hat off and wondered again if he knew he was funny.

I thought I explained it to you. Boyd and I dug coal together.

In the light of eternity, is it better to sell out and ride or stand up and walk?

I won't read a book that starts with a description of the weather. I don't read books over 300 pages, though I'll make an exception for Don Delillo.

The one thing Leonard won't tolerate is fancy prose. As he states in his 10 Rules of Writing: "If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.

Don’t interrupt a man when he’s giving himself hell.

He saw Harvey and Edgar catch each other's eye as he looked off toward the strains of "Alley Cat," Jesus, hoping they'd rush it faster than the others or he'd have to get out of here. It was the only song he knew that made him want to break something.

The shots left a hard ringing sound within the closeness of the brick walls. Terry held the pistol at arm's length on a level with his eyes--the Russian Tokarev resembling an old-model Colt .45, big and heavy--and made the sign of the cross with it over the dead. He said, "Rest in peace, motherfuckers," turned, and walked out of the beer lady's house to wait at the side of the road.

CHIEF LAMBIASE IS a frequent visitor to the store, and to justify these visits, he buys books. Because Lambiase doesn’t believe in wasting money, he reads the books, too. At first, he had mainly bought mass-market paperbacks—Jeffery Deaver and James Patterson (or whoever writes for James Patterson)—and then A.J. graduates him to trade paperbacks by Jo Nesbø and Elmore Leonard. Both authors are hits with Lambiase, so A.J. promotes him again to Walter Mosley and then Cormac McCarthy. A.J.’s most recent recommendation is Kate Atkinson’s Case Histories.

Tony was a lawyer, so you had to accept the fact he was opinionated and full of shit.

Leave out the parts that readers tend to skip.

Boyd looked at him now like he was trying to decide something in his mind. “You’d shoot me, you get the chance?” “You make me pull,” Raylan said, “I’ll put you down.

The personality and the ego scream, while the soul whispers.

You’re going through your menopause and you thought you were in love.

If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it. Or, if proper usage gets in the way, it may have to go. I can’t allow what we learned in English composition to disrupt the sound and rhythm of the narrative.

I take many things seriously. Rudyard Kipling, Harper Lee, Oscar Wilde, and Elmore Leonard are all held in the highest regard. I am dead serious when I discuss the many reasons that Ernest Hemingway’s greatest contribution to literature was his generous decision to take his own life. I will not be sucked into a discussion of politics by people who prefer emotion to reason. The designated hitter is an abomination, and the day pitchers and catchers report is the start of the new year despite what those ill-informed calendar makers might try to tell you.” “I

You know, I think some people fear that if they like the wrong kind of book, it will reflect poorly on them. It can go with genre, too. Somebody will say, “I won’t read science fiction, or I won’t read young adult novels”—all of those genres can become prisons. I always find it funny when the serious literary world will make a little crack in its wall and allow in one pet genre writer and crown them and say, “Well Elmore Leonard is actually a real writer.” Or “Stephen King is actually a really good writer.” Generally speaking, you know you’re being patronized when somebody uses the word “actually

You know what people who go to nude beaches look like?" "Tell me." "People who shouldn't go to nude beaches." "Is Chili Palmer joining the tour?' "I wasn't told" "Ask Nick for me." About a minute went by. Now he heard Nick saying, "Tell him if he goes near Chili Palmer I'll see that he suffers excruciating pain and will never fucking walk again in his life." And, then Robin's voice: "Nick said to tell you that if you go near Chili Palmer he'll have your legs broken." "Why couldn't he say it like that?" "He reads, but the wrong books.

He sat in the living room in the dark, an expert at waiting, a nineteen-year veteran of it, waiting for people who failed to appear, missed court dates because they forgot or didn't care, and took off. Nineteen years of losers, repeat offenders in and out of the system. Another one, that's all Louis was, slipping back into the life.

Raylan got ready.

I try to leave out the parts that people skip.

Yeah, ESP,” Juvenal said. “You know how you do it? You listen to the other person instead of thinking of what you’re gonna say next. That’s all, and you learn things.

A: Anyone who looks like she does has to be somebody... B: What does she look like? A: An ice cream. I had a spoon I would have eaten her.

Quiet and calculating. He hasn’t changed that much since. Always mild-mannered, the nice guy—until someone steps over the line and challenges him.

He called out to no one in particular, "Fire in the Hole!

Louis shook his head. “I don’t know.” “What’s that?” “About going with you.” “You don’t think you will or you know it?” Louis shrugged and drew on his cigarette. “I said before I ain’t talking you into anything. But just answer me this, Louis. What does a three-time loser have to lose?” He started to back out of the drive and stopped. He said, “Louis? You only think you’re a good guy. You’re just like me, only you turned out white.

Well, does it make sense to you?" He said, "It doesn't have to, it's something that happens. It's like seeing a person you never saw before - you could be passing on the street - and you look at each other..." Karen was nodding. "You make eye contact without meaning to." "And for a few moments," Foley said, "there's a kind of recognition. You look at each other and you know something." "That no one else knows," Karen said. "You see it in their eyes." "And the next moment the person's gone," Foley said, "and it's too late to do anything about it, but you remember it because it was right there and you let it go, and you think, What if I had stopped and said something? It might happen only a few times in your life." "Or once," Karen said.

At the bottom of the hill they came out of the trees to a busy street and Antwan said, "We cross here." "Ain't no lights here," Antwan said. "Just look out for the ones trying to hit you. There's a nice-looking blonde-haired female human lives around here - any time she sees me she tries to run me down.

He walked back into the living room, looking again at the illuminated photo of the man with the brown beard and long hair. “Who’s that, a friend of yours?” Mr. Sweety glanced over. He said, “This picture here?” and sounded surprised. “It’s Jesus. Who you think it was?” “It’s a photograph,” Raymond said. Mr. Sweety said, “Yeah, it’s a good likeness, ain’t it?