This is the forked tongue of grief again. It whispers in one ear: return to what you once loved best, and in the other ear it whispers, move on.

My whole life is my work.

Still shaking, in the pew, I understood that it isn't the dead we cry for. We cry for ourselves, and I didn't deserve my own pity.

This thing with being lovers, it isn't like being married.

Sad words are just another beauty. A sad story means, this storyteller is alive. The next thing you know something fine will happen to her, something marvelous, and then she will turn around and smile.

Our own personal brand of courage - in relationships, in conflict, in our principles ­ - is as unique as our fingerprints.

I'm a much better writer for being a father.