I just need to sit, think, write and read.

Edgar Allan Poe’s writings showed me perfectly that there can be such fragile beauty and purity located in darkness and sorrow.

I write fiction not for my readers and not for myself. I write fiction for the sake of those odd heroic characters that are contained therein. They are counting on me as much as I...

I feel like these characters, these places, these beings and plots, and even these inanimate objects are counting on me for survival. It’s my responsibility to reveal them to the world, to show my readers...

It’s my opinion that only in times of utter depression or lofty peace is it appropriate to be creative.

I primarily use poetry as a purge, a self-medication device when I’m in the depths of loneliness, anxiety or in the throes of depression. When I’m lost in the darkness of mental illness, I spill...

In my own book-signings, I find humility. It’s always humbling when people go out of their way to come visit with me and by some of my books.

As long as I have other ideas and projects noted, I feel confident that they’ll be alright until I get to them. And my ideas and tastes may have evolved by the time I get...

I’m a man of music as much as I am a man of words and prose. One could even possibly say that they, music and prose, are connected to a lengthy and mutually beneficial extent...

Give me a bottle of hard cider, a bowl of Peterson Irish Oak in my Neerup pipe, and please, above all, give my Henry David Thoreau’s Wild Apples. Do that and you will see a...