People don't want to accept the responsibility for their own weakness, so they place the blame on something that they're not responsible for, like disease or genetics.

What's crazy is living your life according to some book written by someone who couldn't imagine what your life would be like.

The afternoon and the early evening slide by in a lidded daze where the ability to think in any identifiable way disappears and where every moment seems to be an eternity.

Most of the time, it's not the concept, but the execution of craft that counts.

That's what ever great writer, I believe, has done over the course of time - is they've figured out new ways of telling the same stories.

I hadn't learned yet that everybody's locked up some way or other. That's how life is we're all imprisoned by something.

I think of how and why and what happened and the thoughts come easily, but the answers don't.