Now I'm in nonfiction. To me any given story has its appropriate form. There might be some story I get involved with that's begging to be a graphic novel, so that will have to be that way. There's always that matching of the content and the form, and that means everything to me. I spend years thinking about what that match is going to be before I can really make it work.

In all my life I'd never been approached this way, the car pulling up, the Where you going? It was something I wish had happened hundreds of times. I was a looker - someone who looked over at every car at every traffic light, hoping something would happen, and almost never finding anyone looking back - always everyone looking forwards, and every time I felt stupid. Why should people look at you? Why should they care?

If you don't want anyone to know about your existence, you might as well kill yourself. You're taking up space, air.

I've never had WiFi at home. I'm too easily distracted, and YouTube is too tempting.

Through the small tall bathroom window the December yard is gray and scratchy, the tree calligraphic.

He remained, weeks after awakening, in that period of early-morning consciousness that allows easy re-entry to dreaming. His limbs still tingled with the residue of sleep, and most days he wanted badly to allow it to overtake him again.

Loneliness is just a thing that I'm not personally interested in. So far, it hasn't been on my docket of things to write about.