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

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

What could be worse than having to be seen resorting to your own life.

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

I prefer the sorts of words that go their own way and are very choosy about where they end up. They don't fall for the first frillily syllabled thing to come along.

If I believe in anything when it comes to writing, and I can't stress enough that I detest writing, it's something that sticks with me not from any English class but from some awfully recondite driver's ed. seminars I had the privilege to audit during my mid-teens, and to this day I probably misunderstand it anyway. It's the term "right of way."

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.