To tell this new story, I must see it – not invent it, and not even believe it.
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Life is a current, not a fractured collection of events, and certainly not a static object to be studied and dismantled.
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Everything was about life, really. Even eulogies were about life.
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Readers and writers often segregate themselves through the natural selection of preference.
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I’ve come to see my page not so much as blank but mirror-like.
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It was as if the sales report were a terminal diagnosis from my doctor.
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There is not one thing I have ever done that I have thoroughly enjoyed every single time I’ve done it.
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The best I can offer is to tell a better story, one where all fear and pain is a consequence of misunderstanding.
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To write, I must accept that I am the drill sergeant, dreaming new challenges for myself each morning.
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And yet even in a place that seemed barren to me, there grew that flower calling for my attention.
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I know big houses and trips to Spain are nice – until, that is, they aren’t.
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She didn’t need to know who I was to know that her son wasn’t broken.
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The imagination, freed for just a moment from the ego’s tyranny, can instantly perceive the friendly world we actually inhabit.
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I could still feel myself pinning so much on what these strangers thought of my pitch.
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I don’t need more than myself to create anything or to know anything.
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The sentences that stay are in service to your story. The ones that are rejected are not.
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I’m a storyteller, which means I dream of troubles and see how they will resolve themselves.
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The experience of writing about their troubles teaches the author how to write about the solution.
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If I were honest, I was often bored on those empty summer days.
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Life itself, the thing I’m writing about, is always right, is always a perfect, finished story.
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