We are like water, aren’t we? We can be fluid, flexible when we have to be. But strong and destructive, too.” And something else, I think to myself. Like water, we mostly follow the path of least resistance.

I didn't respond to him. Couldn't speak at all. Couldn't look at his self-mutilation--not even the clean, bandaged version of it. Instead, I looked at my own rough, stained house painter's hand. They seemed more like puppets than hands. I had no feelings in it either.

Human behavior in the midst of hardship caught my attention very early on, and my first stories were all pictures, no words.

The seeker embarks on a journey to find what he wants and discovers, along the way, what he needs.

Here is a girl who is pretty in a quiet way. I bet she's had a very sad life.

I think I write fiction for the opportunity to get beyond the limits of my own life.