Readers and writers often segregate themselves through the natural selection of preference.

I’ve come to see my page not so much as blank but mirror-like.

It was as if the sales report were a terminal diagnosis from my doctor.

There is not one thing I have ever done that I have thoroughly enjoyed every single time I’ve done it.

The best I can offer is to tell a better story, one where all fear and pain is a consequence of misunderstanding.

To write, I must accept that I am the drill sergeant, dreaming new challenges for myself each morning.

And yet even in a place that seemed barren to me, there grew that flower calling for my attention.

I know big houses and trips to Spain are nice – until, that is, they aren’t.

She didn’t need to know who I was to know that her son wasn’t broken.

I could still feel myself pinning so much on what these strangers thought of my pitch.

I don’t need more than myself to create anything or to know anything.

I’m a storyteller, which means I dream of troubles and see how they will resolve themselves.