I vill eat nine Snikuhs bahs visout bahfing

I looked around. As flock leader, everyone was expecting me to make a decision. Jeb's presence here would bring uncertainty, chaos, probably danger. It would perk up my day.

How did you become blind, uh, Jeff is it?" Yeah, Jeff. Well, I looked directly at the sun, you know, the way they always tell you not to. If only I had listened.

Be calm. Be Zen. You are Buddha.

If it's commercial fiction that you want to write, it's story, story, story. You've got to get a story where if you tell it to somebody in a paragraph, they'll go, "Tell me more." And then when you start to write it, they continue to want to read more. And if you don't, it won't work.

What are you doing in there, waxing your mustache?” Iggy yelled, pounding on the bathroom door. I yanked the door open and pushed him backward hard, making him stagger. “I don’t have a mustache, you idiot!” Iggy giggled and put his arms up to protect himself in case I punched him. “And you know what?” I added. “You don’t have one either. Well, maybe in a couple years. You can always hope.” I left him in the hallway, anxiously fingering his upper lip.

Why was the blind guy playing with matches, you ask? Because he's good at it. Anything to do with fire, igniting things, exploding things, things with fuses, wicks, accelerants . . . Iggy's your man. It's one of those good/bad things.