“I think about how much of a good story seems to happen elsewhere, off the canvas or screen or page, in Europe or a backwater New Brunswick town, in what is left unsaid. A word on the tip of the tongue, ungraspable. The teasing smush of a feather boa over naked breasts in a striptease.”
“That's what I love about the short story. You are naked on the page. There is nowhere to hide.”
“The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.”
“I was sixteen and just waking up to the peculiar rules of love - how what's left unsaid between two people can be a far more complicated language than what's written on the page.”
“Pages and pages and pages with words all over the pages. My goodness, what fun. What fun to write whatever words occur.”
“Lust, I suspect, wears repatent stilettos, that feather boa and not much else. Maybe glossy red lipstick.”