"His head hit the tile. He hadn’t fallen, he was pulled – of that Cash was sure."

Up the street, hills that had been dark and drowsy when I laid down were dancing.

One of the most enduring stories that I carry comes from my mother's Midwestern family. It reappears in my writing again and again.

I discover myself at the crossroads of different places and forms and communities.

Of the books that are published, few find wide audiences. Writers can’t control those outcomes, but they can finish what they start.