Don't pointless things have a place, too, in this far-from-perfect world?

I wondered if she was trying to convey something to me, something she could not put into words - something prior to words that she could not grasp within herself and which therefore had no hope of ever turning into words.

He sometimes wondered if she had become involved with him just so that she could cry in someone's arms. Maybe she can't cry alone, and that's why she needs me.

It's the real world, full of gaps and inconsistencies and anticlimaxes.

If writing novels is like planting a forest, then writing short stories is more like planting a garden.

At times like this, adults need a drink

There's no such thing as perfect writing, just like there's no such thing as perfect despair.