I was busy with the drama and I thought it deserved all my energy. I didn’t see the gaps in my writing as evidence of just that, the sacrifice I made to give my whole self over to other people, other needs, other feelings. I just thought that’s what popularity was. If only I’d had the energy to write about it.

I was a lost cause, on that we can agree. But the girl in the book? Well, maybe she still had a shot. Her story was still being written. By me. In my book. And I was much nicer to her.

Cooking kept her so well-fed she didn’t realize it also kept her calm. Until it didn’t. Who knew even butter has limits?

Enough with the fancy dress already Dracula, who are you trying to impress?

Is she stressed? Sleepy? Sucked into Seasonal Affective Stockholm Syndrome? She’s wherever you are, whenever you get get there.

Perfect and shiny might be good for your skincare routine, but not so much for dramatic storytelling.

How do you get past the perfectly clean perfectness of possibility? Nothing I write will ever compete with the thing I think of five minutes later, after everything is ruined.

Sure, things have happened; people got hurt. What, are you gonna cry about it? That’s what Purgatory is for: you do the crime, you do the time. Then it’s Sinatra in Heaven for Eternity, right? RIGHT? What more can one man do?

I was too mad to focus so I didn’t. And who needs focus anyway? I have 5600 grams of dinner sugar running through my veins.

My son thinks because the magic karate robots in his story have powers I have to go along with it, even when they change, even when they don’t make sense, even when I don’t like it. He makes a compelling argument.

I was still struggling with judgmental voices telling me what my writing should look like, while David Lynch was basing the direction of his TV series on vague feelings and momentary creative impulses. This is what separation from the noise will get you.

The noise doesn’t care what you do; it’s going to make you drag it home like a drunk after a long night; it will never get its dead weight off your back.

Mom doesn’t get my whole thing with creativity. What’s the big deal about a block? How does a writing practice balance emotions and protect sanity? She’s open to talking about it, just not until she’s done with her makeup. That’s her time.

No matter what I do, the ants of noisy, judgmental voices are upon me. I’m working too much; my creativity is stiff and soulless. I’m not doing enough; I’m lazy and shameful. Why can’t I just eat ice cream?

I’m so easy to fool, a zombie would be halfway done eating me before I knew I was in a horror movie. At least I’m not rude.

I’m sure anything that seems bogus is in my head. He’s sanctioned by Oprah for pity’s sake. Do I think I know more than Oprah?

Anne Murray’s voice could only soothe me so much on that scratchy brown couch, but I would make the best of it. I always did. What choice did I have?

I despised my stomach for as long as I had a stomach. So why did my son love it so much?

Pancakes were always waiting when we got home from church, I just always assumed they took a church amount of time to cook.

Aunt Rose said Grandma was a liar. If you dropped me into this scene as a child, I might have agreed.