For every time we regret keeping still, there are about ten times we regret speaking up.

A closed mouth gathers no foot.

We pick bygone time up by the handfuls and, like clay, see if it feels right and then form it into stories about the past.

If there is a rumor in the air about you, you'd better treat it as you would a wasp: either ignore it or kill it with the first blow. Anything else will just stir it up.

Whether a character in your novel is full of choler, bile, phlegm, blood or plain old buffalo chips, the fire of life is in there, too, as long as that character lives.

For every time we regret keeping still, there are about ten times we regret speaking up.

Too often we seek justice for just us.