I didn't know the inner me was hungry," I said to Art. "That's because it already starved to death.

Well. That's helpful. We'll put an APB out on the Gingerbread Man. I'm not hopeful it'll do us much good, though. Word on the street is you can't catch him.

... people made the imaginary real all the time: taking the music they heard in their head and recording it, seeing a house in their imagination and building it. Fantasy was always only a reality waiting to be switched on.

I didn't know the inner me was hungry," I said to Art. "That's because it already starved to death.

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.

And he paddled away in his douche canoe.

There's only room for one hero in this story-and everyone knows the devil doesn't get to be the good guy.