One expected growth, change; without it, the world was less, the well of inspiration dried up, the muses fled.

I don't want to live in the kind of world where we don't look out for each other. Not just the people that are close to us, but anybody who needs a helping hand. I cant change the way anybody else thinks, or what they choose to do, but I can do my bit.

When one of my characters becomes aware of a magical element, it might be because the world is wider than we assume it to be, but it might also be a reminder to pay attention to what is here already, hidden only because it's been forgotten.

If you're not ready to die, then how can you live?

There was too much going on here -- too much that strayed from odd all the way over into seriously weird.

We're all made of stories. When they finally put us underground, the stories are what will go on.

I'm not as trusting as people think I am. Sure, I see the best in people, but that doesn't mean it's really there.