There came a time when you realized that moving on was pointless. That you took yourself with you wherever you went.

I never saw any of my dad's stories. My mother said he had piles and piles of manuscripts.

You know how it's going to end, but instead of spoiling things, that somehow increases your fascination. It's like watching a kid run his electric train faster and faster and waiting for it to derail on one of the curves.

The boat dipped and swayed and sometimes took on water, but it did not sink; the two brothers had waterproofed it well. I do not know where it finally fetched up, if it ever did; perhaps it reached the sea and sails there forever, like a magic boat in a fairytale. All I know is that it was still afloat and still running on the breast of the flood when it passed the incorporated town limits of Derry, Maine, and there it passes out of this tale forever.

I'm still in love with what I do, with the idea of making things up, so hours when I write always feel like very blessed hours to me.

You'll consider what you did wrong & bookend your reflections with hunger - no supper, no breakfast.

Because who would ever want to get close to another person if they knew how hard the letting-go part was? In your heart they only die a little at a time, don't they? Like a plant when you go away on a trip and forget to ask a neighbor to poke in once in awhile with the old watering-can, and its so sad—