The farther we get from the past, the less we have a dog in the fight, the more the real past starts to emerge.
We have to let it all sink into our flesh until we have no other choice but to write about it.
When I was growing up, I didn't have posters of rock bands on my bedroom walls. I had pictures of Leo Tolstoy, Ivan Turgenev, and Fyodor Dostoevsky.
A thousand of your competitors are writing about life in New York. Who's competing with you to write about life in your town?
We all move through the world collecting experiences we can’t shrug off.
