One of the things I like about making stuff in the age of the Internet, is that people make stuff in response to it. You can see people respond to your work visually or musically or with writing.

Harry Potter isn’t real? Oh no! Wait, wait, what do you mean by real? Is this video blog real? Am I real if you can see me and hear me, but only through the internet? Are you real if I can read your comment but I don’t know who you are or what your name is or where you’re from or what you look like or how old you are? I know all of those things about Harry Potter. Maybe Harry Potter’s real and you’re not.

The book was turned to the page with Anne Frank's name, but what got me about it was the fact that right beneath her name there were four Aron Franks. FOUR. Four Aron Franks without museums, without historical markers, without anyone to mourn them. I silently resolved to remember and pray for the four Aron Franks as long as I was around.

He missed that, too, and it hadn't even happened.

The urge to make art or contemplate philosophy does not go away when you are sick. Those urges just become transfigured by illness.

This is what I love about novels - both reading them and writing them. They jump into the abyss to be with you where you are.

How will I ever get out of this labyrinth!" to a margin note written in her loop-heavy cursive: Straight & Fast.