Parkland happened, and we knew we couldn’t stay silent any longer.
As artists, we will never know the full extent to which our work has affected others. But I would ask this, if you could change just one person’s life, wouldn’t it be worth it? And if that person is just you, the artist, aren’t you worth it?
Our favorite books are part of what allow us to peel back the layers of our own selfhood, to reflect on our experiences.
Most of the concrete details incorporated in the poems are factually true, even though many of the characters/voices I’ve created are fictional and the comic book landscape of monsters, supervillains, and superheroes is frequently fantastic.
Every story begins somewhere different for me, which means I often have to be alert to what pulls me in.
Every writer has to find perspective on—and an appropriate position in—the narrative they want to recount.
Who the hell knows what we will do in our lives?
Can we speak for anyone else? Are writers only ever speaking for themselves? Always never speaking? Always always speaking?
I rarely begin a story knowing where it will lead or if a character will hold up against a situation.
Other people’s tragedies often look uniformly grim and depressing, but the stories of our own tragedies usually look much more complicated—truly terrible events juxtaposed with absurdity and sometimes even joy.