I can’t speak for other writers, so I won’t try, but I’ve discovered something recently: my themes are my preoccupations; the ones of which I cannot let go. Seems simple right? You’re wondering how on earth this is an epiphany? You see, I used to read texts and wonder how their authors could so expertly weave the same old ideas through their work time and time again. I thought them masters; pure genius even.

As I set out to write another story, I’ve noticed a pattern in my own work: I seem to return to the nature of time, the bearing of the past upon the present, parenthood, and the waxing and waning love of long term relationships. I wish that I could say that I do it consciously; then I could take more personal responsibility for any depth or resonance in the work, but, in truth, it seems to just happen.