I'm bad at picking heroes.

Short forms are returning online. Interactivity is coming back; it was always there in oral storytelling.

Jimmy had been full of himself back then, thinks Snowman with indulgence and a little envy. He’d been unhappy too, of course. It went without saying, his unhappiness. He’d put a lot of energy into it.

I wanted to forget the past, but it refused to forget me; it waited for sleep, then cornered me.

Happiness is a garden walled with glass: there's no way in or out.

I wish this story were different. I wish it were more civilized. I wish it showed me in a better light, if not happier, than at least more active, less hesitant, less distracted by trivia. I wish it had more shape. I wish t were about love, or about sudden realizations important to one’s life, or even about sunsets, birds, rainstorms, or snow. I’m sorry there is so much pain in this story. I’m sorry it’s in fragments, like a body caught in crossfire or pulled apart by force. But there is nothing I can do to change it.

Publishers are in business to make money, and if your books do well they don't care if you are male, female, or an elephant.