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I’ve found that love has provided my life’s happiest moments.

A friend of my father’s once told me, “You’ll never be a writer.”

I once heard in a sermon, “Choose the important over the urgent.”

Don’t write what you know. Write what you can imagine.

It’s best for my heart to have hours and hours each day to write.

“The Sentry” taught me that all true laughter has tears behind it.

Every really good book on first reading is life changing.

I’m a big fan of then. A novel needs a lot of thens.

Try never to repeat rhymes, not once in an entire show. It tires the ear.

One of my stories was rejected by a journal as “theatrical and self-limiting.”

The Great Gatsby had an awful, detrimental effect on me.

Love is not something you wait for passively, but a practice.

Love is the difference between a full life and an empty one.

I like to think of love as something that one should keep feeding, like a fire.

The dope worked, though he felt ashamed using it, smoked in secret.

It suddenly seemed to her that the world was filled with little miracles. There were moments when love overcame her despair.

A grin of bitterness swept thereby like an ominous bird a-wing.

I am desperate to love myself, to tolerate myself, vanity is fine.

If he was going to pick me up, the least he could do was look at me.

I walk across the fields with only a few young cows for company.

I want these things to have another life, like the old garden behind our house.

Even then (Colin remembers now), it felt like the end of something.

i stored away in my mama’s empty perfume bottles smells and stories

These old guitar players were the last pure thing this country produced.

I’ll leave a trail of crumbs as I descend into god knows where.

It’s been months, and the fields are good for nothing but night talks.

I want everything to mean. To have worth and weight. But it doesn’t.