It's my petty fear of personal rejection that allows so many true evils to exist. My cowardice enables atrocities.

Discovering the 'impossible' ending to a new book makes me sick with joy and relief.

Peter used to say that an artist’s job is to make order out of chaos. You collect details, look for a pattern, and organize. You make sense out of senseless facts. You puzzle together bits of everything. You shuffle and reorganize. Collage. Montage. Assemble.

Sorry, mom. Sorry, God.

Somehow people have been sold on the idea that only professionals can entertain them, that only professionals can sing or tell jokes. And people are cut out of this creativity loop, and creativity is being limited to these large, centralized voices.

Yes, I kidnapped that Lindberg baby.

The future you have, tomorrow, won't be the same future you had, yesterday.