Then the children went to bed, or at least went upstairs, and the men joined the women for a cigarette on the porch, absently picking ticks engorged like grapes off the sleeping dogs. And when the men kissed the women good night, and their weekend whiskers scratched the women's cheeks, the women did not think shave, they thought stay.

I'm not first and foremost interested in story and the what-happens, but I'm interested in who's telling it and how they're telling it and the effects of whatever happened on the characters and the people.

The year I began to say vahz instead of vase, a man I barely knew nearly accidentally killed me.

The only time the word baby doesn't scare me is the time that it should, when it is what a man calls me.

I know that homes burn and that you should think what to save before they start to. Not because, in the heat of it, everything looks as valuable as everything else. But, because nothing looks worth the bother, not even your life.

Good leaders being scarce, following yourself is allowed.

I do feel that if you can write one good sentence and then another good sentence and then another, you end up with a good story.