What Else Is There To Write About

I Really Feel Like The Gift Is Also The Curse. It's Always Half-and-half. Whatever Brings You The Most Joy Will Also Probably Bring You The Most Pain. Always A Price To Pay

Love Ambushed You, It Lay In Wait, Dormant For Days Or Years. It Was The Red Thread, The Peach Stone, The Kiss, The Forgiveness. It Came After You, It Escaped You, It Was Invisible, It Was Everything.

The Sky Is Already Purple; The First Few Stars Have Appeared, Suddenly, As If Someone Had Thrown A Handful Of Silver Across The Edge Of The World.

I Never See A Novel As A Film While I'm Writing It. Mostly Because Novels And Films Are So Different, And I'm Such An Internal Novelist

Among Men And Women, Those In Love Do Not Always Announce Themselves With Declarations And Vows. But They Are The Ones Who Weep When You're Gone. Who Miss You Every Single Night, Especially When The Sky Is So Deep And Beautiful, And The Ground So Very Cold.