Perfect love was that kind of love that made no sense but made everything else make sense somehow. It was raw and unscripted, turbulent and slightly unpredictable.

The first book we fall in love with shapes us every bit as much as the first person we fall in love with.

Every small town that I had ever been to had had a caboose.

Life didn’t go how I had planned, but I couldn’t have planned a better life. Somewhere in between the beginning and eternity, I fought the war that we all must fight–the journey that in taking, forces us to come face to face with our own realities.

Fire will burn any human body it touches, and starvation will waste it, but stories are not so predictable in their effects.

But there is so much more to do for the city we love... a Dallas with roads as strong as our businesses, parks as beautiful as our children, a downtown as tall as our imagination.

Writers would be warm, loyal, and otherwise terrific people-if only they'd stop writing.