My eyelids are my own private cave, he murmured. That I can go to anytime I want.

I didn’t mind the quiet stretches. It was like we were trying out the idea of being side by side.

To see someone you love, in a bad setting, is one of the great barometers of gratitude.

I peeled the skin off a grape in slippery little triangles, and I understood then that I would be undressing every item of food I could because my clothes would be staying on.

But I loved George in part because he believed me; because if I stood in a cold, plain room and yelled FIRE, he would walk over and ask me why.

Language is the ticket to plot and character, after all, because both are built out of language.

Not getting bored of my own story and/or character is one of the main struggles I have had with novel writing, and I have put to bed big chunks of work that just didn't sustain my interest.