The only real access that I have to my mind is when I'm writing.

A lot of the job that one has to do as a writer is to protect the thing that doesn't match the world.

What keeps me writing is that I can only know through writing. My major sense organ is apparently a pencil.

The day misspent, the love misplaced, has inside it the seed of redemption. Nothing is exempt from resurrection.

Who would have guessed it possible that waiting is sustainable. A place with its own harvest.

It's important to have your private enjoyments because sometimes that's all we have.

BAIT GOAT There is a distance where magnets pull, we feel, having held them back. Likewise there is a distance where words attract. Set one out like a bait goat and wait and seven others will approach. But watch out: roving packs can pull your word away. You find your stake yanked and some rough bunch to thank.