The World Makes Liars Of Us All.

I Know That The Writers I Read And Admire All Have An Influence On My Work, But Trying To Determine To What Degree Any Particular Piece Of Input Changes The Way I Think About Writing Seems Counterproductive.

I'm Always Most Interested In Writing About Things That I Don't Understand.

All Pain Is The Same. Only The Details Are Different.

I've Been Writing Poems And Stories Since I Was About 13.

The War Tried To Kill Us In The Spring. As Grass Greened The Plains Of Nineveh And The Weather Warmed, We Patrolled The Low-slung Hills Beyond The Cities And Towns. We Moved Over Them And Through The Tall Grass On Faith, Kneading Paths Into The Windswept Growth Like Pioneers. While We Slept, The War Rubbed Its Thousand Ribs Against The Ground In Prayer.