I want to pretend there's such a thing as requited love. As the endurance of love.

What little reality television I've seen seems to be about economic desperation. Like the marathon dancing of the Great Depression, which should give us pause. People willing to eat flies and worms for a sum that is less than the weekly paycheck of the show's producer. I haven't seen "reality television" that is other than this kind of painful, sadistic exploitation of fit young people looking for agents.

If I retain any freshness of approach, it's by going slowly having long intervals between finished projects.

I would never understand photography, the sneaky, murderous taxidermy of it.

What do I do when writing isn't going well? Well, I don't write - which is symptom, cure, and cause. And then sometimes I just tell myself, as I'm writing, "I'll fix it later." And sometimes it's true, I do.

If God Speaks Through Burning Bushes, Let's Burn Bush and Listen to What God Says.

I did think reviewers were supposed to be polite about story collections - collections are rather delicate creatures in the literary environment - but not everybody got this memo, I guess.