The Stars Looked Like Nail Heads In

One Of Those Out-of-the-ordinary Days That Made Sense Of The Slew Of Ordinary Days. New York Had A Way Of Doing That. Every Now And Then The City Shook Its Soul Out. It Assailed You With An Image, Or A Day, Or A Crime, Or A Terror, Or A Beauty So Difficult To Wrap Your Mind Around That You Had To Shake Your Head In Disbelief.

The Tunnels Of Our Lives Connect, Coming To Daylight At The Oddest Moments, And Then Plunge Us Into The Dark Again. We Return To The Lives Of Those Who Have Gone Before Us, A Perplexing Möbius Strip Until We Come Home, Eventually, To Ourselves.

I Think It Is Our Job, As Writers, To Be Epic. Epic And Tiny At The Same Time. If You're Going To Be A Fiction Writer, Why Not Take On Something That Means Something. In Doing This, You Must Understand That Within That Epic Structure It Is The Tiny Story That Is Possibly More Important.

I Don't Know Of A Greater Privilege Than Being Allowed To Tell A Story, Or To Listen To A Story. They're The Only Thing We Have That Can Trump Life Itself.

The Repeated Lies Become History, But They Don't Necessarily Become The Truth.