I remind myself that no one day of writing matters all that much. A story is built somewhat like a stalactite - one little drip of mud and grit at a time.

Who knows what may lie around the next corner? There may be a window somewhere ahead. It may look out on a field of sunflowers.

The blood of a redheaded woman is three degrees cooler than the blood of a normal woman. This has been established by medical studies.

That was one thing you found out when you were stoned, or wasted, or feverish: that the world was always turning and that only a healthy mind could block out the sickening whirl of it.

The best way to get even with anyone is to put them in the rearview mirror on your way to something better.

Aren't you going to tell me I'm not so bad? she asked. Mmm-no. I was thinking how every man loves a hot girl with a history of making mistakes. Because it's always possible she'll make one with you.

It was like wondering how evil had come into the world or what happens to a person after he dies: an interesting philosophical exercise, but also curiously pointless, since evil and death happened, regardless of the why and the how and what-it-meant.