I sat alone in the darkened living room, abandoned by family, scorned by the dog, nursing a jam jar of Jim Beam.
Having sensed that Adam felt shy and awkward with women, I made Pam his teacher.
In many ways, remembering is a leap of faith, just as writing is.
If human beings were perfect, there would be no stories.
Turning one’s attention away is the quintessence of sloth—and it’s the opposite of what writers need to do.
