Outside, daylight was bleeding slowly toward dusk.

I can see your dirtypillows.

The late afternoon sunlight, warm as oil, sweet as childhood.

Formula: Second Draft = First Draft minus 10%.

You learned to accept, or you ended up in a small room writing letters home with Crayolas.

I want to engage the reader. I'm an emotional writer, in the sense that I would be happy if you re-read a book for the intellectual or the mental part of it, but, the first time, I just like to reach out and grab you, pull you in.

As a kid, death seemed boring to me. As an adult, I think that it seems more like a waste of everything. Somebody once said every time a professor dies, a library burns.