All Pain Is The Same. Only The

I Know That The Writers I Read And Admire All Have An Influence On My Work, But Trying To Determine To What Degree Any Particular Piece Of Input Changes The Way I Think About Writing Seems Counterproductive.

My Personal Opinion Is That If Someone Writes Honestly About War, It Will Inherently Be Anti-war.

All Choices Are Illusions, Or If They Are Not Illusions Their Strength Is Illusory, For One Choice Must Contend With The Choices Of All The Other Men And Women Deciding Anything In That Moment.

It's Not Just: You Get Off The Plane, You're Back Home, Everything's Fine. Maybe The Physical Danger Ends, But Soldiers Are Still Deeply At Risk Of Being Injured In A Different Way.

The War Tried To Kill Us In The Spring. As Grass Greened The Plains Of Nineveh And The Weather Warmed, We Patrolled The Low-slung Hills Beyond The Cities And Towns. We Moved Over Them And Through The Tall Grass On Faith, Kneading Paths Into The Windswept Growth Like Pioneers. While We Slept, The War Rubbed Its Thousand Ribs Against The Ground In Prayer.