I Can Hurt Myself More Than Anyone

Ironically, Now That My Children Are Older And Gone Quite A Bit, I Find It Harder To Work When They're Not Around. Too Much Free Time!

My Grief Was Cold. It Was Nothing To Share. It Was Nothing To Speak About, Nothing To Feel.

Fairytales Were Maps Formed Of Blood And Hair And Bones; They Were The Knots Of The Sub-conscious Unwound. Every Word In Every Tale Was Real And As True As Apples And Stones. They All Led To The Story Inside The Story.

I'm At The Point Where Going Forward Is Easier Than Going Back.

One Of My Favorites Is "time And Again" By Jack Finney. It Takes Place In Manhattan And Goes Back And Forth Between 1882 And The 1950s. It's Really A Cult Book.