He’d be buried in the town he so desperately wanted to leave.
I don’t want fiction. What I want is truth. Or someone’s version of it.
Progressive stages of revision eliminate incidence in favor of essence.
I used bravado to protect myself when we lived in poverty.
We take our solace, in a time of malaise and mourning, in the close-at-hand.
My grandfather committed my grandmother to a mental asylum.
Neither blood nor belonging accounted for my presence in Ghana.
The survival of our world depends upon the cultivation of better language.
Narrative offers any reader a modern pocket library.
Advance planning was never Hank’s strong suit, he had to leave her.
I was convinced she’d be back in the morning, like the sun.
Fiction, no matter how short or long, is the art form of human yearning.
We never really had what might be considered a normal conversation.
Americans have always a kind of tenderness for cheat.
I was writing copy for cheapo furniture for a crummy ad agency.
Identify where you came from, where you are, and where you wish to go.
He said he had come back to the prison because it was home.
The excuse, of course, was that men had to support families.
I recoil from the certitude that religion can give a person; it’s horrific.
I should never have the notebook and the pencil in the right pockets.
Women should hate it when people whistle at their backs as they walk past.
Later, in a sudden about-face, she gives herself to him entirely.
I grew accustomed to seeing the sun rise and set from the school.
Why do girls want to cheerlead? Don’t they know it objectifies women?
Why kill something so mild-mannered, entertaining, and sociable?
I could not tell what visions were vanishing in the dying slave.
They do good things for us, the bats. But we do not want them there.
I worry that I will be kidnapped by my cab driver and driven to an ATM.