How could she ever understand that there isn't any way could be disappointed since I no longer find anything worth looking forward to?

I felt lethal, on the verge of frenzy. My nightly bloodlust overflowed into my days and I had to leave the city. My mask of sanity was a victim of impending slippage. This was the bone season for me and I needed a vacation.

A child should never even think about being a "good son." A parent decides that fate for the child. The parent encourages that. Not the child himself. And the "perfect dad"? I shudder at thinking what that may be.

I like the idea of a writer being haunted by his own creation, especially if the writer resents the way the character defines him.

All of my books come from pain.

Fear never shows up and the party ends early.

I'm on the verge of tears by the time we arrive at Pastels since I'm positive we won't get seated but the table is good, and relief that is almost tidal in scope washes over me in an awesome wave.