A collection, for me, is a book of very diverse stories that somehow speak to each other, across wide geography, across time, years, decades.

As a professor I can't teach writing.

I feel like there are too many words in the world, and I think silence is so much more powerful than the glut of words.

I revise and revise and revise. I'm not even sure "revise" is the right word. I work a story almost to death before it's done.

We don't want emotion handed to us - that's not emotion. You have to build and come from the reader's soul.

My first book came out again - the re-issue from 2001. I was rereading it to make sure that I didn't miss any mistakes, and I didn't know who had written some of these stories. I really didn't. I am a different person now. It's weird. I think if stories are good, they have to have a life of their own that's independent of the writer. I like to think of my characters out there in other peoples' heads. That's a nice thing to think about.

Rarely is the pain of losing someone expressed with such directness, energy, and, yes, humor. The grief in Evan Kuhlman'sWolf Boyis palpable, and so is the flawed, honest humanity of his characters. Here is real loss and somehow, real catharsis.