Packing suitcases — I don’t pack to journey. I used to. I would pack everything into a backpack and be off. Today, well, suitcases can be most unsettling. It’s not like I can pack my talents, bloodstains, and mistakes, folded up with my dreams, shirts, pants, and toothbrush. Then there’s packing love, too…

I lost Daniel and his mother, both casualties of the Estonia Ferry Disaster, September 28, 1994. — Daniel was fourteen years old. He was an adult. He was my son. No boy was ever born who loved the sea more than Daniel; he wasn’t born for any other reason than to wade into the water, and should have been born here, on the rocks of the Mendocino…

America is sliding toward autocracy. — Mrs. Braebrooke, our classroom teacher, rolled down a map of the world from its anchorage on the ceiling. The width of the map stretched almost across the room. She held a long thin cane in her hand, similar to one dad might tie up tomatoes, and pointed to a large…

There’s not much to know. I’ve been fortunate. Now I write. — I started life in an orphanage. Actually, not strictly true, I started life being hidden beneath a shrub on a roundabout in Gants Hill, Essex. I was found by a young couple leaving the Odeon cinema (since demolished) having spent their evening watching a Spencer Tracy movie, Edward, My Son. …

You’re welcome. — You did not say in your letter that you had chosen the wrong man but rather that he had disappointed you. …

Better than Agatha, whatever her name is. — Okay, you have to listen to me. We all know I tend to exaggerate — some of you call it lying — Peter and the Wolfe thing. I have to take your cynicism on the chin, but so help me, God, if this isn’t the truth, strike me down dead. …

I’m done with Missouri, Trump signs, and humidity. — Just so you know, writers suffer more than most from disruption. Good, you get me. That means you’ll understand. After weeks of chaos, moving day is getting closer. California, here I come. Grandchildren, goodbye and good rid… (edited out by Jenny) She loves the grandchildren. …

Sausage is my favorite, with scads of butter and HP sauce. — I’ve gone dead, completely flat, my writing is shit. Wait, that’s rubbish. I don’t know why I said that. Sorry. Thanks for coming by. Your eyes alone are worth more than Medium money, more than caffeine, and nearly as much as a Macallan, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. …

Confessions are always difficult. Especially when asking Granddad for forgiveness. — I was asked not long ago, and I am unsure what prompted the reader to ask if I was ever scared of anything. I apologize for misleading the reader if she was inspired to ask this question after reading my work. Like most writers, I exaggerate, invent, and make myself…