How wonderful it would be to scatter words as they rise to consciousness, to let them lie where they fall.

I haven't really thought about where to scatter my ashes when the time comes, but I doubt that it would be in space.

It's is in those bitter brutal battles strangled by the jaws of despair and defeat, at the long end of hopeless if the champion within can steal a moment of hope and arise....and if he but have the courage to recognize that moment he can ascend and seize greatness....and he will forever more realize and be one with that familiar sound of that eternal calling fully manifested in the one they call you.

Masks are wonderfully paradoxical in this way: while they may hide the physical reality, they can show us how a person wants to be seen.

I had a wonderful time making 'Dark Shadows.'

I'm really such a bumbler! Writing fiction is like arranging furniture in a dark room. I can't see what I'm doing. I grope for the right words. I bump against the wrong words and stumble and stub my toe and curse and keep trying to guess what belongs in the space.