The storyteller must look past what is, training their storytelling eye on what will be.
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I would just be me; no ornamentation. If the relationship wasn’t real, that had to be okay.
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Everyone thinks they want to be loved, but they don’t.
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Artists often do not know how what we made affects the people with whom we share it.
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There is nothing more painful than not acknowledging that I love what I love.
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The writing muscle is a seeing muscle that can’t be seen.
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The writer must remain as interested as she possibly can, no matter how long it takes that interest to turn into a story, scene, or sentence.
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Publishing is how I share what I’ve written, and sharing things I love with other people is another way of reminding me why life is interesting and worth living.
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You did not know until meeting your friend that your life was nothing but problems.
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To be allowed in to this party, I can’t complain about it or want it to be different; I have to just accept it, accept all of it, including that part of it called Me.
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Love is both an experience and expression.
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Love is creation’s only companion.
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It’s hard to write stories that contradict your own life.
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It wasn’t so much the writing as how I felt when I wrote.
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All a story can do is point to something the reader or the audience may have forgotten or disregarded.
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Eventually you accept the cycle of creation.
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What I love is so important to me, how could another person get me if they if the stuff I turned to for inspiration and meaning was boring or made no sense to them?
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The praise I hoped to receive pleased me as long as one draw on a cigarette pleased me.
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Just loving something seems so impractical. I cannot see the absolutely clear line between love and my own survival, between love and those numbers in my bank account.
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I didn’t know that the daily discomfort with which I lived was the difference between what wanted to be expressed and what I was expressing.
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