Writing is so hard. And then, sometimes, it is so bewilderingly easy.

It is hard to sever the cords that tie us to our slavery and leave intact those that bind us to ourselves.

Writing about why you write is a funny business, like scratching what doesn't itch. Impulses are mysterious, and explaining them must be done with mirrors, like certain cunning slight-of-hand routines.

We store in memory only images of value. The value may be lost over the passage of time, but that's the implacable judgment of feeling.

We do not, after all, simply have experience; we are entrusted with it. We must do something--make something--with it. A story, we sense is the only possible habitation for the burden of our witnessing.

People come and go in life, but they never leave your dreams. Once they're in your subconscious, they are immortal.

Writing is so hard. And then, sometimes, it is so bewilderingly easy.