I forget sometimes I’m a storyteller, and start believing I’m a character stuck in some horrible play filled with bullies and dullards.
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The blank page of my life is always asking the same question.
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The rate at which I learn something does not make the lesson any less true.
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If my mind isn’t busy with what’s going on around me, then what’s been on my mind quickly surfaces.
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If we are honest, every writer, whether a life-coach or poet, must acknowledge that what they are shaping is not theirs.
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The ease of life is not so simple to believe.
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It is tempting to write with this idea of immortality in mind, thinking that if future strangers are still whispering your name in libraries and classrooms you will somehow avoid what is often seen as the travesty of death.
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The heat of that which has not healed burns so strong it can drive a story on its fire alone.
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I try write about sex as if the reader has never had sex, or going for a walk as if the reader has never gone for a walk.
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