Ma's still nodding. "You're the one who matters, though. Just you." I shake my head till it's wobbling because there's no just me.

Ah yes, the paradox of publicity is that even as we do it, we know it's killing off the chance of another reader happening across our book in the ideal state of innocence.

At the door, there was one of those moment when two people realize that they like each other more than they know each other. This is nicer than the opposite situation, but more awkward. You try to remember the protocol for touching. You hate to gush, or presume to much, yet you are unwilling to let the moment pass without without some gesture

You cannot predict literary success; the only way you can possibly aim for it is to do your thing and do it well.

Books are the air I breathe, so I don't notice the seasons.

Writing stories is my way of scratching that itch: my escape from the claustrophobia of individuality. It lets me, at least for a while, live more than one life, walk more than one path. Reading, of course, can do the same.