There’s great in relief showing my struggles and grief when I know how things will really turn out.
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How scary stillness seems if you believe you have lost the means of propulsion.
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All discouragement and despair are an expression of erroneous fortunetelling.
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The choice to start again will always be available, just the as fearful questions will be waiting to challenge you again.
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That’s the beauty of stories. Once we’re finished telling them, they belong to the reader.
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No one can really tell you you’re good enough in a way that will really matter.
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Where you are will always be somewhere when you ask yourself why you’re there.
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People, after all, are creative by nature.
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We don’t describe the entire room, just the crooked lampshade, the stain on the ceiling, the threadbare rug.
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I’ve lived years, decades even, within a spell I’ve cast on myself.
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A friendship, a story, or a conversation with a stranger were just vessels.
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The stories I read need me to bring them to life; until I do, they are just lines on a page.
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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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Readers and writers often segregate themselves through the natural selection of preference.
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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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