I don’t remember a time in my life when I could look at an El Camero and not immediately think of my father.

I have the hands of a 77-year-old man. That is to say, I have my father’s hands—the ones I imagine he would have if he were still alive. It’s like they started aging at a rapid pace the day he died so I would always carry part of him with me.

If you write as if you are a writer, you’re self-conscious. If you write as if you aren’t one, you’re disingenuous.

These trees are missing their arms.

And that was the moment the thought-ghost spirited away all my good ideas.

I want what I want, and I will hold my breath until I get it.