A Certain Point of View: Writing, Film and Stuff

  Because You Were Kind. Because You Were Here. Sometimes it’s not the grand gestures or the well-timed speeches that leave the deepest impressions. Sometimes it’s just being there —quietly, imperfectly, but fully present. There’s an illustrated quote making the rounds from Comings and Goings: The Art of Being Seen that reads: “Because you were kind. Because you were here. That’s what matters.” It’s simple. Unadorned. But it echoes—for good reason. In stories and in life, we often believe impact comes from fixing something. That if we say the perfect thing or perform the perfect act, we’ll finally make a difference. But presence—genuine, patient presence—is its own kind of grace. It doesn’t demand a spotlight. It doesn’t require resolution. It just offers a kind of quiet hope: that showing up for someone, even in their silence, can still mean everything. That’s the kind of love and kindness I’ve tried to explore in my work—not as a climax, but as a current. Not shouted, but...

The author in 2020   “Some Loves Don’t Ask”: A Poem in Three Movements Some moments don’t belong to the past so much as they echo quietly in the present—fragments of kindness, memory, and presence that resist the erosion of time. As I prepare to share Comings and Goings: The Art of Being Seen , I’ve been thinking about the spaces between stories—the ones that never become chapters, but shape the emotional weight of everything that follows. The poem below isn’t part of the short story, but it shares its emotional DNA. It’s a reflection on encounters that didn’t last, but mattered. I hope it finds you in a quiet moment.   The Boy She Loved for One Night She’s older now— not by much, but enough that the past feels more like a country she left than one she was exiled from. At a shelf she wasn’t seeking, his name appears— spine out, serifed, tucked between authors she almost recognizes. Garraty. A flicker. A room. A song dressed in Beethoven’s longing. ...

Soft Light, Quiet Courage Kelly’s Perspective He stepped inside like he wasn’t quite sure he belonged. His eyes moved over everything—the piano, the books stacked sideways, the lavender sprig in the jelly jar next to the stereo. He didn’t make a single joke about the crooked lampshade or the milk crate bookshelf. Didn’t pretend not to notice the faint scent of lemon cleaner and reheated rice. He just looked around like it was a story he hadn’t heard yet. A man had never looked at my apartment that way. Not like he was casing it or judging it—more like he was absorbing it. And that’s when I saw it. Not in anything he said. Just... how still he stood. Hands at his sides. Shoulders slightly hunched. Like he’d crossed a threshold and didn’t want to track in something he wasn’t supposed to. He’d never been in a girl’s bedroom before. Not like this. Not as himself. Not without bravado or teasing or expectation. That realization settled gently in my chest—not as power, but as tenderness . “I...