There is always, always, always something to write about.

The more I learned the less I felt I knew you and I got lost counting stars, I fell dreaming. Sometimes I’d wander away. Maybe I wasn’t ready or maybe it was just a hard...

I need you because I know I deserve you but let me fall in love with you one last time before I let go. So I can remember the beautiful imperfection that rattled my bones.

Sometimes ideas flow from my mind in a raging river of stringed sentences; I can scarcely scribble on the page fast enough to keep up with the mental current. Sometimes, however, beavers move in and...

Only the mediocre artist is always at his best.

The idea of writer’s block or not having inspiration is totally terrifying to me.

For grief has always been so dear to you that you would make me writhing in pain in the brothel of your imaginations than to be playing with a bunch of balloons in the yard...

I’m the kind of writer that people think other people are reading.

The space where I write is in my head, I suppose.

I would want to travel the world and write about it. To be a famous writer.