Fantasy, at its best, is balm for the soul. But it is faulty logic to assume that balm is necessarily mind-numbing anesthesia.

The act of sharing with readers was at first too much of an intimate thing. But it evolved into an intense necessity to share.

One of the things that I've noticed over the years is that I seem to be fascinated as a writer with the notion that we already have all that we need.

Short stories are like individual jewel stones on a necklace, wonderful in themselves like standalone gleaming entities of semantic intensity.

Seems to me that there is no better way to experience the depth of loss than after the fact. No more powerful instrument of imbuing value in an object than parting with it.

Whenever you go on a trip to visit foreign lands or distant places, remember that they are all someone's home and backyard.

Each letter of the alphabet is a steadfast loyal soldier in a great army of words, sentences, paragraphs, and stories. One letter falls, and the entire language falters.