Before You Have Children, You

I Sell Dreams, Small Comforts, Sweet Harmless Temptations To Bring Down A Multitude Of Saints Crashing Among The Hazels And Nougatines

If You Can Still Write In Spite Of The Fact That You're Not Getting Paid, That Nobody Cares About What You're Writing, That Nobody Wants To Publish It, That Everybody Is Telling You To Do Something Else, And You Still Want To And You Still Enjoy It And You Can't Stop Doing It...then You're A Writer.

Drunkeness, She Told Us In A Rare Moment Of Confidence, Is A Sin Against The Fruit, The Tree, The Wine Itself. Wine, Distilled And Nurtured From Bud Into Fruit; It Deserves Reverance. Joy. Gentleness. (page 194.)

Life Is What You Celebrate. All Of It. Even Its End.

I've Never Been Very Good At Leaving Things Behind. I Tried, But I Have Always Left Fragments Of Myself There Too, Like Seeds Awaiting Their Chance To Grow.