It amazes me that parents are allowed to raise kids. There's so much power and often very little accountability.

Spelling is a way to make words safe, at least for now, until another technology appears to soften attacks launched from the mouth.

Being with him was like being alone underwater - everything was slow; nothing counted; I could not be harmed; I would feel dry and cold when I resurfaced.

It's lonely to listen to the pleasure of others, not that I've made a habit of that kind of eavesdropping. There's joy and passion in the next room, in the next bed, but it's not yours.

In some sense, prose fiction is just a way of unlocking a space. If I can unlock the space, it comes out and it's vivid, I find that I care about it, and it's part of me.

Eventually you stop paying attention to your own feelings when there's nothing to be done about them.

I'm attracted to how fraught the parent-child relationship is, swerving so easily between love and hostility, with almost no plausible way to end, unless someone dies.

Suspense left my life a long time ago, now it has returned. I do not care for it.

A self needed to spill out sometimes, a body should show evidence of what the hell went on inside it.

A misspelled word is probably an alias for some desperate call for aid, which is bound to fail.

To refrain from storytelling is perhaps one of the highest forms of respect we can pay. Those people, with no stories to circle them, can die without being misunderstood.

Monitor and control every passing day so as to live without regrets

Like most parents, I want everything for my kids that I didn't have. But I don't intend to spoil them. I just enjoy everything that comes naturally with parenthood.

There is a point in every contest when sitting on the sidelines is not an option.

Go not to the object; let the object come to you.

I don't do normal. I have a reputation to uphold. (Thwonk)

You completely unscatter me, and I appreciate that too much.

Don't try to anticipate an ideal reader - or any reader. He/she might exist - but is reading someone else.

I never know which is worse: the sorrow when you hit the bird or the shame when you miss it.

Most people's jobs are rooted in reality.

Sleep is the sister of death and the dwellers of heaven will not sleep