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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 the difference between a full life and an empty one.

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

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

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.”

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.

Navigating the trailer park at night felt like a raid on a strange village.

It’s true, I killed my husband. I had my reasons. He was a hunter on the trail.

She’d ransacked his heart the moment she unlocked the door.

How many gods do you believe in? How many good men?

She’s not the same, her body more naked in its aging, its disorder.

Two animals, doe-eyed, slick across the road into the femur of the night.

It is a city of sea, sun, boulevards, strolling beauties, life-altering food.