I learned another thing, which is that just because someone is eating the ashes of your protagonist doesn't mean you stop telling the story.

I learned another thing, which is that just because someone is eating the ashes of your protagonist doesn't mean you stop telling the story.

I love road trips. You get into this Zen rhythm; throw sense of time out the window.

Conversing with children is a fine art.... An art form that demands large amounts of both honesty and misdirection. Or maybe discretion is a better word.

Perhaps depression is caused by asking oneself too many unanswerable questions.

The other day I found her passport in her drawer when I was putting away my dad's laundered handkerchiefs. I wish I hadn't. For the purpose of my story, she should have it with her. I sat on my dad's bed and flipped through page after empty page. No stamps. No exotic locales. No travel-worn smudges or creases. Just the ID information and my mother's black-and-white photo which if it were used in a psychology textbook on the meaning of facial expressions would be labelled: Obscenely, heartbreakingly hopeful.

Life being what it is, one dreams not of revenge. One just dreams.