I’ve had a fountain pen surgically implanted in my left index finger to save trouble. My body is tattooed with line upon line of truth, fiction, and a not-always-pleasing mix of the two.

When I pour a bowl of Uncle Sam’s cereal, I never know if I should stand when I eat, salute it first, or simply hum the Star Spangled Banner between mouthfuls.

I speak, I speak, and truth at that. Writers are a curious breed: brooding, fickle, alternately loving and hating their work—and each other. You’re my friend? Don’t pick up that pen!

Without the hard we stay too soft, and heaven is reduced to myths like life. Theology aside, it’s plain to see that God forbids we get too comfortable.

Today I fed him right off the bat, and only checked Facebook twice.

If a book can save—redeem us from the mediocrity of the mundane—surely, there must be a God.

Nonfiction. I didn’t choose it as much as it chose me. It squatted and birthed me one raw winter day then jerked me up and set me to scribing.

I think that’s why I write—the not knowing and the blasted good feeling I get out of it all.

Writing makes me hard, like a fisherman, and brown from the heat. Tossing out and reeling in is a job for visionaries and those with calloused hands.

In this book, much is metaphorical, not as it seems. It’s written for writing’s sake, as if I were to say, “Let me tell you I’m dying.” Well of course I am. So are you.

This world rubs me raw, scours me smooth like an SOS pad put to a grease-caked skillet. And pain: it stabs and scrapes and pulls me back to earth, my final B&B, that worm-spun cot of cool black sod.

Leaders' major question is "why". If they lose, they ask "why". If they win, they ask "why". Their "whys" weave their wonders.

Optimism is not fantasy. It hopes for the best reality without departing from it.

I'm thankful to say that I already have my dream job. I wouldn't trade it for anything.

Chihiro, huh? Her real name's Chihiro? Can't beat the power of love.

And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that light.

Beasts feed. Man eats. Only the man of intellect knows how to eat.

As hard as I've tried, I don't know how not to be adorable.

Though a woman tempted man to eat, my dear Longfellow," said Holmes, "you never hear of Eve having to do with his drinking, for he took to that of his own notion.

There are substitutes for oil; there is no substitute for fresh water.

Some take their gold in minted mold, and some in harps thereafter, but give me mine in bubbles fine and keep the change in laughter.