A thought experiment courtesy of the Stoics. If you are tired of everything you possess, imagine that you have lost all these things.

One of the odd things about being a writer is that you never reach a point of certainty, a point of mastery where you can say, Right. Now I understand how this is done.

A few nights later, I secretly hope that I might be a genius. Why else can no amount of sleeping pills fell my brain? But in the morning my daughter asks me what a cloud is and I cannot say.

When God is a father, he is said to be elsewhere. When God is a mother, she is said to be everywhere.

Some women make it look so easy, the way they cast ambition off like an expensive coat that no longer fits.

For years, I kept a Post-it note above my desk. WORK NOT LOVE! was what it said. It seemed a sturdier kind of happiness.

My plan was to never get married. I was going to be an art monster instead.