There are some stories you can't hear enough. They are the same every time you hear them. But you are not. That's one reliable way of understanding time.

In terms of the secrets that imbue and underlie Fall on Your Knees, they were as much of a mystery to me as I was creating the story as they are to the readers.

She's no lady. Her songs are all unbelievably unhappy or lewd. It's called Blues. She sings about sore feet, sexual relations, baked goods, killing your lover, being broke, men called Daddy, women who dress like men, working, praying for rain. Jail and trains. Whiskey and morphine. She tells stories between verses and everyone in the place shouts out how true it all is.

It's important to attend funerals. It is important to view the body, they say, and to see it committed to earth or fire because unless you do that, the loved one dies for you again and again.

The thief you must fear the most is not the one who steals mere things.

They are so young, they forget that the world is not as in love with them as they are.

Writing is a hellish task, best snuck up on, whacked on the head, robbed and left for dead.