When I have an idea for a story, I never know how it’s going to turn out or, even, what it’s really about. I tend to spill out my guts all over the page, and then go back and shape it.

“Hurting someone for their own good is easier than she thought it might be.”

“There he is, laying on his side facing the street with his pants around his ankles, his hiney shining like a pale moon.”

Here lately, I suppose I’d describe myself as a collagist. I collect slim notebooks of overheard language, odd images, possible poem frameworks, & run-on thoughts that keep me up at night.

“As I sat drenching myself in Giono’s world, it was as if I knew I had a soul.”

I would like to put forth the idea that I’m a tea bag writer. I pack a bag of ideas and sit in the water and whatever comes out, that’s the story.