People, after all, are creative by nature.
Read MoreWe don’t describe the entire room, just the crooked lampshade, the stain on the ceiling, the threadbare rug.
Read MoreI can’t clap my hands like a potentate and see joy delivered on a platter. I can, however, expect it.
Read MoreI’ve lived years, decades even, within a spell I’ve cast on myself.
Read MoreWhen you write, it’s your job to describe a sunrise or passing traffic as if observed for the first time.
Read MoreA friendship, a story, or a conversation with a stranger were just vessels.
Read MoreWe’re no saint, and how embarrassing, how shameful, when the world learns we’ve been posing as one.
Read MoreThe stories I read need me to bring them to life; until I do, they are just lines on a page.
Read MoreTo stay interested we have to acknowledge that we are changed by what we make and that those changes cannot be undone
Read MoreTo tell this new story, I must see it – not invent it, and not even believe it.
Read MoreLife is a current, not a fractured collection of events, and certainly not a static object to be studied and dismantled.
Read MoreEverything was about life, really. Even eulogies were about life.
Read MoreReaders and writers often segregate themselves through the natural selection of preference.
Read MoreI’ve come to see my page not so much as blank but mirror-like.
Read MoreIt was as if the sales report were a terminal diagnosis from my doctor.
Read MoreThere is not one thing I have ever done that I have thoroughly enjoyed every single time I’ve done it.
Read MoreThe best I can offer is to tell a better story, one where all fear and pain is a consequence of misunderstanding.
Read MoreTo write, I must accept that I am the drill sergeant, dreaming new challenges for myself each morning.
Read MoreAnd yet even in a place that seemed barren to me, there grew that flower calling for my attention.
Read MoreI know big houses and trips to Spain are nice – until, that is, they aren’t.
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