Everyday he got up. Before sleep wore off, he was who he used to be. Then, as his consciousness woke, it was as if poison seeped in. At first he couldn't even get up. He lay there under a heavy weight. But then only movment could save him, and he moved and he moved and he moved, no movement being enough to make up for it. The guilt on him, the hand of God pressing down on him, saying, You were not there when your daughter needed you.

There wasn't a lot of bullshit in my heaven.

He was beginning to understand: You were treated special and, later, something horrible would be told to you.

Sometimes you cry, Susie, even when someone you love has been gone a long time.

One thing about failing repeatedly: If you're still doing it after you've failed that much, you really mean it.

It's hard, because when you talk about process or your characters ruling your narrative, it sounds like you have no control, but obviously you're ultimately the author, so you do have control.

I live in a world where two truths coexist: where both hell and hope lie in the palm of my hand