How scary stillness seems if you believe you have lost the means of propulsion.
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All discouragement and despair are an expression of erroneous fortunetelling.
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The choice to start again will always be available, just the as fearful questions will be waiting to challenge you again.
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That’s the beauty of stories. Once we’re finished telling them, they belong to the reader.
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No one can really tell you you’re good enough in a way that will really matter.
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Where you are will always be somewhere when you ask yourself why you’re there.
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People, after all, are creative by nature.
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We don’t describe the entire room, just the crooked lampshade, the stain on the ceiling, the threadbare rug.
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I can’t clap my hands like a potentate and see joy delivered on a platter. I can, however, expect it.
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I’ve lived years, decades even, within a spell I’ve cast on myself.
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When you write, it’s your job to describe a sunrise or passing traffic as if observed for the first time.
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A friendship, a story, or a conversation with a stranger were just vessels.
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We’re no saint, and how embarrassing, how shameful, when the world learns we’ve been posing as one.
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The stories I read need me to bring them to life; until I do, they are just lines on a page.
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To stay interested we have to acknowledge that we are changed by what we make and that those changes cannot be undone
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To tell this new story, I must see it – not invent it, and not even believe it.
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Life is a current, not a fractured collection of events, and certainly not a static object to be studied and dismantled.
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Everything was about life, really. Even eulogies were about life.
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Readers and writers often segregate themselves through the natural selection of preference.
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I’ve come to see my page not so much as blank but mirror-like.
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