It was my mother who taught me the one worthwhile thing: when they ask if you like what you see in the mirror, pretend that what they mean is what's behind you--the shower curtain, the tile, the wallpaper, whatever's there.

Desks are terrible places, no matter how many wheels a chair might have. You can't do much about how drawers fill up.

If I have a problem, it is this: there is a store where everything costs a dollar.

Kim Chinquee writes with remarkable heart and grace. Her wise capsulizings of love's devastations and of life's roil and disappointments come at you with a sorrowing precision that comforts even as it haunts.

My writing isn’t a career or a craft or a hobby or anything like that. It is more like a tiny annex to my life, a little crawl space in which I occasionally end up by accident in the dark.

You get tired of always wondering anew why life has to take the place of youth.

The writer, as I see it, has the right of way, so it's up to the reader to look out.