I'm probably a lot closer than perhaps the contents of my early fiction suggest to a jaded Denny's waitress with smoker's-lung-black humor than a ghost hunter.

I would love to travel around the world working for a travel company taking students abroad on cultural immersion trips.

My mom says I'm destined to be the sort of man who uses big words but pronounces them incorrectly.

Heaven, Kiwi thought, would be the reading room of a great library. But it would be private. Cozy. You wouldn't have to worry about some squeaky-shoed librarian turning the lights off on you or gauging your literacy by reading the names on your book spines, and there wouldn't be a single other patron. The whole place would hum with a library's peace, filtering softly over you like white bars of light.

Somehow I wasn't adding up right anymore. My parts weren't summing into myself.

I want a real encounter with something true and disconcerting about peoples' natures.

I really try to write every day. It's hard, but it's my favorite thing to do. So, it's usually not too, too hard.