“This morning, Ray Bradbury is dead and there is only soy milk at my coffee shop.I do not know which to be more sad about, that my body and I are suddenly uncomfortable or that a man I have never met, far away, has stopped breathing.My heartbeat will end one day. It is a miracle it’s lasted this long, not because I have wished it otherwise, but because my car keeps overheating.My car is huge compared to my heart.A writing prompt, given to me on a bicycle ride last week:“What is the most dangerous thing you’ve done lately, and why?”I climbed the Pillsbury building, because I wanted to, because I could, or because I was bored, or because I know how, because I know that wearing dark blue at night makes you look like a cloud.Ray Bradbury’s heart is not beating anymore.The Pillsbury building is so big compared to his heart,but this morning he is dead and there is only soy milk at my coffee shop.”

“Most of all I grieve for my soul because even though I do, finally, believe there is a God, and that I have met him, I do not know if he has given me an immortal soul, but only one that was to last me as long as my body lasted. I do not know if when the last page of my book is closed, that will be the end of me.”

“Why do I write? I write because I have to, because it is all I know, because it is my truth, because I am compelled, because I am driven to make the world acknowledge that women like me exist, and we possess a dangerous wisdom. ”

“I write because of the fragility of our existence. I write because it's my answer to impermanence. I write because it helps me stay connected to my heart. I write because we’re all different, and so much the same. I write because the world needs more tenderness. I write because I'm tired of secrets. I write because it’s my path to redemption. I write because I've forsaken those that I love. I write because I want to know myself. I write because I want to know you. I write because I'm drawn towards things I shouldn't do. I write because every flower is meant to bloom. I write because life is full of paradoxes. I write because I’ve had to leave friends behind. I write because it's my form of prayer. I write because, when I write, I lose track of time. I write because I've walked dark streets looking for love. I write because of the way the sublime slips away from words. I write because of the twice shy part of once burned. I write because it helps me learn. I write because there are plenty of people who have written, famous well-published people, literary figures, literary giants, and I didn't like what they wrote. I write because I'm always telling myself stories anyhow. I write because I don't know all of the reasons I write. I write for you. I write. I write. I write.”

“I want to buy a sports car, because I like riding bicycles. Hold on to my handlebar mustache if you value your life.”

“I know I can make my mark on this world, and not because of my last name - but because of my own talent.”

“I have stayed these years in my hovel because of you. I have taught myself languages because of you. I have made my body strong because I thought you might be pleased by a strong body. I have lived my life with only the prayer that some sudden dawn you might glance in my direction. I have not known a moment in years when the sight of you did not send my heart careening against my rib cage. I have not known a night when your visage did not accompany me to sleep. There has not been a morning when you did not flutter behind my waking eyelids.”