A lap full of pulled threads piled up looking like spiraling incense ash, something to read your fortune in.
All my life, everything had happened with the beginning wrapped in the shroud of its own end.
For me, typically, story ideas are like rainbow trout: elusive, finicky, difficult to find and even harder to bring in once you’ve found them.
She can’t do it; she understands that clear as day. She only just met the man—what, an hour ago?—and she’s not sure he even knows her name.
She was dead, yes, but they didn’t talk about it.
Everything is wrong, thought William. This is how people die.
Lines shift. Lines change. Boundaries are redrawn. Whole new worlds, created out of bits of the past, from what is passed forward, accepted again, taken and renewed. This, too, is an act of faith, the going forward, the continuing on.
The art of telling a story is often found in making connections between disparate things.
In three great piles on the barn’s floor were pyramids of skulls with the antlers still attached.
Cranberries that weren’t lively enough, that didn’t bounce, got thrown away. You saved that information for future use.