The thing under my bed waiting to grab my ankle isn’t real. I know that, and I also know that if I’m careful to keep my foot under the covers, it will never be able to grab my ankle.
Writing is not life, but I think that sometimes it can be a way back to life.
Wanting more is just a recipe for heartache.
Outside, a gusty October breeze was combing leaves from the trees and sending them across her backyard in colorful skitters.
It was life, often unsatisfying, frequently cruel, usually boring, sometimes beautiful, once in a while exhilarating.
Absence may or may not make the heart grow fonder, but it certainly freshens the eye.
You can’t deny laughter; when it comes, it plops down in your favorite chair and stays as long as it wants.
Hearts can break. Yes, hearts can break. Sometimes I think it would be better if we died when they did, but we don’t.
Semi-facetiously, when people ask me why I write these kinds of stories, I simply say that I was warped as a child. And, there is some truth to that.
What can be done when you’re eleven can often never be done again.
You discarded most of the lies along the way but held on to the one that said life mattered.
Like all sweet dreams, it will be brief, but brevity makes sweetness, doesn’t it?
Successful rebellions always begin in secret.
Go now. Our journey is done. And may we meet again, in the clearing, at the end of the path.
Sooner or later even the fastest runners have to stand and fight.
Nobody lives forever, but we all shine on.
I’d like to take a motorcycle trip across Europe, maybe even across China. Of course I’d also like to broker a peace agreement between the Israelis and the Palestinians, but it’s important to put ceilings on one’s ambitions.
There was a lot they didn’t tell you about death, she had discovered, and one of the biggies was how long it took the ones you loved most to die in your heart.
It was the kiss by which all the others of his life would be judged and found wanting.
I’d like to learn French well enough to write in that language.