Smoke and Mirrors

Writing is flying in dreams.
When you remember. When you can. When it works.
It’s that easy.

‘I feel dirty. I feel tarnished. I feel befouled. Perhaps it is true that all that happens is in accordance with Your will, and thus it is good. But sometimes You leave blood on Your instruments.’

Stories are, in one way or another, mirrors. We use them to explain to ourselves how the world works or how it doesn’t work. Like mirrors, stories prepare us for the day to come. They distract us from the things in the darkness.

They appear to tell the truth, to reflect life back out at us

“I mean,” she said, “that one can’t help growing older.”

(When I was a child, adults would tell me not to make things up, warning me of what would happen if I did. As far as I can tell so far it seems to involve lots of foreign travel and not having to get up too early in the morning.)

good a reason for writing as I know: releasing demons, letting them fly.

Fairy tales, as G. K. Chesterton once said, are more than true. Not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be defeated.

She and Gordon spoke little, except to argue the small and petty arguments of those who fear the big arguments, knowing that the only things that were left to be said were too huge to be said without destroying both their lives.

They’ll call it chance, or luck, or call it Fate,
The cards and stars that tumble as they will.