Now that I knew fear, I also knew it was not permanent. As powerful as it was, its grip on me would loosen. It would pass.

Time was rushing around me like water around a big wet rock. The only difference is, I was not so durable as stones. Very quickly I would be smoothed away.

Can you stop your mother from singing to you? Who would do such a thing?

The contents of a house can trigger all sorts of revisions to family history.

I make very involved drawings, even little structures, and try using design to figure out the rhythm of a plot. If there are several narrators then a clue has to pop up in the first line. There have to be certain grammatical clues, or distinctive names.

Every so often something shatters like ice and we are in the river of our existence. We are aware.

Sometimes a person's monstrosity seems superhuman.