This is the sorcery of literature. We are healed by our stories.

When Emily Dickinson writes, “Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul,” she reminds us, as the birds do, of the liberation and pragmatism of belief.

I wonder about silence. Also about darkness. I love the idea that city lights are a "conspiracy" against higher thoughts.

Finding beauty in a broken world is creating beauty in the world we find.

I write to create red in a world that often appears black and white.

To hear something asks very little of us. To listen places our entire being on notice.

The only book worth writing is the book that threatens to kill you.