As a friend of mine, herself a writer, says, 'People who spend the most meaningful hours of their lives in the exclusive company of imaginary people are apt to be a little strange'

If fate sends you a lemon, use it to make lemonade.

Why on earth should I care whether people read me with their eyes or their ears?

The short story, I should point out, is perforce a labor of love in today's literary world; there's precious little economic incentive to write one.

Stories are like assholes. Everybody's got one and most of 'em stink.

This church was open and seemingly unattended, and it was a throwback in another way as well. The candles in the little side altars were real ones, actual wax candles that burned with an open flame. Lots of churches have switched over to electrified altars. You drop your quarter in the slot and a flame-shaped bulb goes on and stays on for your quarter's worth of time. It's like a parking meter, and if you stay too long they tow away your soul.

One aspect of serendipity to bear in mind is that you have to be looking for something in order to find something else.