I was what I would be if I wasn’t a writer: a clerk in a used bookstore.
No writer is equivalent to his or her publicity, his or her photograph, his or her flap copy, even less to your uncomfortable feelings about it … however much you’re entitled to those feelings.
It was inconvenient that I liked him.
Like hitchhiking itself, the journey is a little overrated—a destination would be nice.
Your parents are the first memo to come across your desk, on a page so large you can’t see past its edges.