I’ve never had a rat, never chased one. I chase my own tail and that’s enough. I must now make plans for the day I catch it.

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.

if somebody ask me to chose my home in the whole world i would chose your arms

You can do terrible things when you don't know who you are.

No one should brave the underworld alone.

It's usually kids that normally don't have a chance to get to meet each other because they're separated by millions of different things.

Philosophy became a gloomy science, in the labyrinth of which people vainly tried to find the exit, called The Truth.

You see things; and you say, ‘Why?’ But I dream things that never were; and I say, ‘Why not?

The mind that is full of God is empty of anxiety. Are you troubled, restless, sleepless? Then think of God more!

Like the child, the creative writing student is posited as a centre of vulnerable creativity, needful of attention and authority.

I found out in pro wrestling that it works better if you just try and be yourself versus working on something you're not, so I'm me and maybe it's magnified a bit, but it's easier just being me.

The ability to throw 100 mph cannot be taught, cannot be learned, it can only be God-given.