I Just Noticed Recently That In One

How Often Had That Hydrant Even Been Opened? Did You Jet Water Through A Car Window, What, Twice At Best? Summer Burned Just A Few Afternoons Long, In The End. As For Flying, Dose Never Even Glanced At The Sky. Flying Was A Summer Within A Summer, A Whim. So Why Think Of It At All?

My Heart, To Put It More Simply, Got Nostalgic For The Present. Always A Bad Sign.

I'm Gregarious With Writers And Never With Manuscripts . . . I [like To] Create The Illusion Of Seamless Perfection, So I Alone Know The Flawed Homely Process Along The Way.

I Believe That Written Stories Will Continue To Survive Because They Answer An Essential Human Need. I Think Movies Might Disappear Before The Novel Disappears, Because The Novel Is Really One Of The Only Places In The World Where Two Strangers Can Meet On Terms Of Absolute Intimacy.

I Had Always Wanted To Be A Writer Who Confused Genre Boundaries And Who Was Read In Multiple Contexts.