Death Should Be Celebrated...when You

At The End Of The Day, It's About The Reader's Attachment To And Belief In The Magical Elements That Make Or Break Magical Realism.

When I Was Eight Years Old, I Wrote A Paragraph-long Short Story About A Goat On My Mother's Hundred-pound, Black-and-white-screen Laptop. The Story Came About Largely Because I Liked The Way The Word 'goat' Looked On The Page, But I Decided Then And There That I Wanted To Be A Writer. That Desire Never Changed.

In My Earliest Memory, My Grandfather Is Bald As A Stone And He Takes Me To See The Tigers.

No Matter How Grave The Secret, How Imperative Absolute Silence, Someone Would Always Feel The Urge To Confess, And An Unleashed Secret Is A Terrible Force.

I Do No Writing While I'm In Belgrade Visiting My Grandma.