My Memory Loves You… It Asks About

Dogs Are Here To Remind Us Life Really Is A Simple Thing. You Eat, Sleep, Take Walks, And Pee When You Must. That's About All There Is. They Are Quick To Forgive Trespasses And Assume Strangers Will Be Kind.

Most Men, No Matter How Well Or Badly Dressed, Carry Overstuffed, Beat Up Wallets That Should Have Been Replaced Years Ago. Why Is That? Every Time I See A Guy Take Out A Wallet Anywhere, It Looks Like A Piece Of Old Melted Chocolate Cake-with Strings.

A Short Story Is A Sprint, A Novel Is A Marathon. Sprinters Have Seconds To Get From Here To There And Then They Are Finished. Marathoners Have To Carefully Pace Themselves So That They Don't Run Out Of Energy (or In The Case Of The Novelist-- Ideas) Because They Have So Far To Run. To Mix The Metaphor, Writing A Short Story Is Like Having A Short Intense Affair, Whereas Writing A Novel Is Like A Long Rich Marriage.

The Keys That Unlock The Heart Are Made Of Funny Materials: A Disarming Phrase That Comes Out Of The Blue, Nowhere, A Certain Sexy Walk That Sends You Reeling, The Way Someone Hums When She Is Alone. My Father Said It Was The Way My Mother Danced With Him.

There Are People We Meet In Life Who Miss Being Important To Us By Inches, Days, Or Heartbeats. Another Place Or Time Or A Different Emotional Frame Of Mind And We Would Willingly Fall Into Their Arms; Gladly Take Up Their Challenge Or Invitation. But As It Is, We Encounter Them When We Are Discontent Or Content And They Are Not. Whatever They Are, We Are Not And Vice Versa. Two Trains Going In Different Directions That Pass For A Few Powerful Moments At Full Speed, Blasting Noise And Wind But Then They Are Gone. Whatever Serious Chemistry Might Have Been Possible If, Isn’t.